


Corresponding Shapes (Like Puzzle Pieces From The Clay)

by novel_concept26



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 64,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate: (n.) A person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.</p><p>An anthology of unconnected AU environments, as prompted by various souls on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isn't This (Exactly Where You'd Like Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. in which Sarah and Felix thought it would be fun to take Cosima to a strip club for her birthday, where Delphine is a stripper and Leekie is her creepy boss (Alison also tags along, unknowingly where they go to).

You’re not supposed to fuck the strippers.

She doesn’t usually go to strip clubs. Doesn’t see much of a point. Wouldn’t be here at all, really, if not for her sister’s extremely  _strange_  sense of humor. But Sarah isn’t often in town, and she’s brought along her friend Felix (whose sense of humor is, if anything, stranger than Sarah’s),  _and_ Alison has somehow gotten roped into this whole shenanigan (which makes Cosima grin, because if there’s anyone on the planet Earth who should not be in a strip club, it is their prissy, uptight triplet)—so she’s here. Spending her 28th birthday in a dark, sweaty room full of dark, sweaty men and ladies who are not remotely unattractive.

She’s had worse.

Though she could really do without the creepy dude in the corner, watching their table with beady eyes that just  _scream_ ,  _Three-way act._ It’s lucky Sarah hasn’t noticed him yet. Sarah doesn’t take well to staring. Or strangers. Or human beings outside of this table.

Sarah wasn’t exactly designed for social engagements.

What she  _was_  designed for, apparently, is hideously embarrassing siblings on their birthdays.  _Their_ birthday, in fact, the one they all three share—not that Sarah seems to be taking that into account with the way she’s flagging down the blonde stripper with the legs, waving a twenty and bellowing in her thick, rough accent, “ _Birthday girl, here. We got ourselves a bleedin’ birthday girl!_ ”

Alison looks as though she wants suddenly to crawl beneath the table and huff messily into a paper bag until the panic attack drifts away, but Cosima holds her ground. It will only get worse if she fights it, and besides, Felix slipped her some devilishly good grass before this whole party got swinging. Makes it much easier to lean back and enjoy the ride when Legs McBeauty finds her way off the stage and to their table.

She’s hot. She  _hot._  The kind of hot that almost hurts to look at without reaching for, because pretty like that needs to be touched, held, turned over and over between the hands until it makes sense. Cosima likes things that makes sense, and loves things that are beautiful, and somehow finds a twisted appreciation in beautiful things that don’t entirely fit together like they’re supposed to. It’s a triplet thing, she suspects. Or maybe she’s just, as Sarah affectionately puts it so frequently, a darling little nutjob.

The stripper is hot.

And smiling at her. 

Cosima tries to tell herself that it’s the woman’s  _job_  to smile at her, that she probably isn’t the least bit gay or interested, and that it’s Sarah’s twenty that’s really sparking the chemistry here. She tries—but her head is delightfully airy from Felix’s handy-dandy joint, and Sarah is clapping excitedly, and poor Alison still looks like she’s torn between throwing up and tattling. It’s a twisted sort of picture, and it makes thinking clearly incredibly difficult.

She settles back in her chair instead, grinning her broadest, easiest grin when the stripper settles a long leg over her lap and lowers herself slightly. A lapdance in front of her sisters wouldn’t normally be her  _first_  choice of birthday activities, but fuck it; Hottie Von Power Thighs is gripping the back of the chair and rolling her hips to the tune of some sick old 80’s rock ballad, and it’s  _nice_. There are far worse things in this world than being baked and straddled by a beautiful woman. Even if she’s being paid to make your panties burn.

She’s not supposed to touch the woman, she knows, and wouldn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, either way. There’s a certain delirious freedom in sex workers that she’s always admired, a confidence in the push and pull of their own bodies, a smirking tenacity not to be ignored. It’s beautiful here, the way the stripper thrusts and rocks, hands in her own hair, breasts straining over the cups of her bra. Beautiful, the way she catches hold of one of Cosima’s dreads and tweaks it playfully, winking. She winks back, keeping her own hands carefully clamped on either side of the seat.

Sarah and Felix are hooting, sloshing beer over the sides of their glasses. The woman seems not to notice them at all as she catches hold of Cosima’s head and pulls her straight into the curve of her breast, almost letting skin brush skin before pushing her away again. Delighted, Cosima laughs. 

"You are lovely," the stripper tells her throatily, lips almost against the shell of her ear as she strains to be heard over the music. There’s an accent there, heavily European. It’s the accent, even more than the breasts in her face and the gorgeous length of legs, that quickens her pulse, and Cosima has to remind herself firmly that, no, you’re  _not supposed to fuck the strippers_.

Not supposed to—but when the woman shifts around with her back to Cosima’s chest, sitting right on her lap and arching back, she turns just enough to whisper, “Meet me. After. In the back.” And Cosima  _knows_  it’s probably some muddy ploy to get more money out of her, something set up by the creepy guy in the corner—he’s got to be the owner, and he looks an awful lot like the sort of man who would sell out his employees however he can get away with—but…

She tells the others she needs some air, and they buy it—probably because Sarah and Felix have shifted their attention to getting Alison well and completely plastered. Cosima lets them be. It’s their birthday, too, and they deserve whatever fun they can find.

Even if it isn’t bound to be  _half_  as fun as what she’s seeking out.

Hopefully. Honestly, the pot is starting to wear off a little, and she’s beginning to feel marginally stupid about taking a stripper’s invitation seriously. Where even  _is_  the back? Will the woman be there at all? It isn’t like she thrust out her hand and gave a full name before sauntering back onstage. She’s still Legs McGee to Cosima, and while that’s fine for a one-lapdance fantasy girl, she’s pretty sure she’ll need a little more to go on when it comes to—

"Hi."

She hasn’t changed her outfit, Cosima notes, although she has draped a flimsy silk robe around herself. Her cheeks are flushed, and there is a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. It somehow makes her all the more gorgeous. Cosima’s breath quickens.

"Hey," she replies clumsily around a broad grin, "hi. You."

The woman tips her a smile of her own, extending a hand delicately. Cosima accepts it. 

"Delphine," the woman says, and it’s no Legs McGee, but Cosima decides she likes it fine. She gives her own name, not realizing until it’s already out of her mouth that the woman may well have offered an alias. She’s a stripper. Strippers don’t tend to like being looked up in the phone book the next morning.

Then again, strippers don’t often invite girls to their dressing rooms, either (Cosima is reasonably certain), but the hand in hers is pulling her to “the back”, to a small room with mirrors and a couch and a very small number of personal items strewn about. It looks like the sort of place Sarah would live while running: nothing too real, nothing too homey. Just a place to work out of. 

"Do all of you get your own rooms?" Cosima asks, because she’s feeling giddy and childish, and because the woman’s robe is extremely clingy. This is what it’s like to be seventeen again, she thinks, with her tongue in the mouth of the first girl ever to smile at her with that same wanton hope she’s always felt for beautiful women. This is what it likes to be in that old flame of puppy love.

 _Puppy love with a stripper. Nice one_ , Sarah’s voice informs her cheekily. She ignores it. Sarah may have started this whole thing, but it’s Delphine who’s finishing it off. 

"Mr. Leekie is very accommodating," Delphine agrees without missing a beat, closing the door and flipping the lock almost whimsically. Cosima watches her, skin tingling with anticipation, and decides she doesn’t much care to know more about this Mr. Leekie. It’s Delphine she wants to study, Delphine she wants to pick apart and make sense of. Delphine, and her legs, and her blonde curls, and the unexpected innocence of her smile.

"So…" She trails off, unwilling to misread this whole thing. She’s been there before. it isn’t pretty. "You’re…"

 _Gay_ , she wants to ask, but she’s pretty sure Delphine isn’t. There’s something about the way she carries herself, about the way she keeps looking Cosima up and down, like she’s some brave new drug Delphine is unexpectedly itching to try. Like it maybe even surprises Delphine herself.

"I don’t have any money," Cosima tells her awkwardly, hoping to diffuse the whole  _not really into prostitution_  thing before this really gets out of hand, and if Delphine is insulted, she doesn’t show it. She only giggles, shaking her head. It’s a lovely sound, that giggle. Too easy to forget, sometimes, that strippers have good cheer, too.

"I’m not looking for money," Delphine replies, and touches her cheek with the tips of long, nimble fingers. A bare brush of skin, almost innocent—but her eyes are dark and gleaming, her lips wet from the flick of her tongue, and suddenly, Cosima is  _really_ glad for Sarah’s ridiculous sense of humor.

She’s kissing her before she means to. It would be more polite to make conversation first—where are you from, what do you do in your spare time, is stripping your truest career love?—but Delphine is standing with her fingers rap-tapping against her sides, her cheeks pink and her stance unsteady, but interested. Very interested. She’s never been around a more encouraging woman, and when she kisses her—soft and gentle, because maybe Delphine  _hasn’t_ done this before; what way does she have of knowing?—the soft hum of pleasure is more than inviting enough to continue.

The hands that find her waist are even better; Delphine’s palms are broad, and her fingers deft, and she’s working her way past Cosima’s skirt almost before Cosima’s head stops spinning enough to agree to it. If she hasn’t done this before, she makes up for it with blind enthusiasm; her kisses are slow and hungry, and Cosima sinks into each one with easy abandon. It’s a precious thing, to be tasted and mulled over this way, to be learned with such warm curiosity. She decides within seconds that she loves it: loves the scent of Delphine’s sweat and shampoo, and the roughness of her tongue as she sucks at an earlobe, and the little husk of approval she emits when Cosima unties the robe and lets her hands wander beneath.

It feels  _good_  to be handled this way—not like the family geek or the goofy tree-hugger, but like a woman, like something desirable and appreciated. It feels good, the way Delphine arches into her palms when she cups newly-bared breasts, and better still when she dips her head and feels Delphine’s fingers twisting around her dreads to hold her close. It feels good, to run teeth and tongue across puckered skin, and to feel the vibrating rhythm of Delphine’s delight shiver along her lips. 

It feels better still when Delphine backs her hard into the door and rocks against her, her nakedness warm against the slivers of skin where Cosima’s sleeves end and the hem of her shirt rucks up over her belly button. Delphine’s got a hand in hers, pinned to the rough wood, fingers fitting in the spaces where  _someone’s_  should be, and Cosima thinks,  _Why not her?_  She fits. She fits the way not everyone would, and as she slides her free arm around Delphine’s neck and groans into the satin of her open mouth, she feels a spike of triumph for it. 

She wasn’t looking, and maybe this woman isn’t what she seems. Maybe it is dangerous, to fall for a shadow, for a dream, for a lie. Maybe this whole thing really  _is_  part of the act. Maybe.

But if not?

She spins them, and it’s Delphine against the door, Delphine with her head tipped back and her throat bared to Cosima’s kisses. It’s Delphine whose hand grips her hip, fast as concrete, and whimpers when Cosima pushes between her legs and grinds hard against her. She wonders sometimes if this is how alpha males feel, this surge of adrenaline that guides their hand and challenges them to prove themselves. She wonders if biology isn’t so different in human beings, given the right circumstances. She wonders if there isn’t just a little animal in all of them.

She doesn’t have to wonder if Delphine likes it.

Delphine is as honest a lover as Cosima has ever had, despite being a complete stranger. She clutches at Cosima’s clothing, wrenches at her, pulls her so close, it’s hard to breathe, or move, or think. She whispers Cosima’s name like a prayer, and when Cosima works a hand between them and slides it down the front of ruined underwear, her eyes roll back and her mouth snaps shut on a low groan. 

 _You’re not supposed to fuck the strippers_ , Cosima thinks giddily, even as she does just that, her fingers curling and twisting in time with her pounding heart. Delphine catches her by the jaw with the hand not squeezing her fingers to numbness, and kisses her in one broad, mad, exuberant motion. Deep. Hungry. Hopeful.

It’s the hope that spurs her, rutting her hips against one strong thigh, thrusting her fingers. It’s the hope that eats at her later on, when Sarah and Felix are giggling and swaying on the street, and her own arm around Alison’s shoulders is the only thing keeping her sister from face-planting into the asphalt. It’s the hope she’ll remember in bed that night, and for so many nights to come. She can’t read that hope. Can dissect it. Can translate it into anything resembling English.

Delphine comes on her fingers and releases a stream of French curses into her neck, and when Cosima’s head clears again, she can feel only the shivering clutch of muscles around her hand and the bruising pressure of lithe fingers on the back of her neck. There will be marks there in the morning, when she eases the dreadlocks aside and tilts herself sideways to check. Dark finger-shaped marks. Dark Delphine-shaped marks.

She doesn’t stay long afterward. There is no cuddling, no afterglow to bask in. Delphine looks apologetic when she says she has never done this before, that she would be in big trouble if her boss found out. Apologetic for saying so—but not for inviting Cosima back here. She’s smiling when she kisses her goodbye.

Sarah hardly notices her return. Alison is surrounded by empty shot glasses now, and is twirling her scarf in the air, hollering happily as a pair of redheaded strippers dance onstage. Cosima slides back into her chair and tries to refocus her attention on the situation at hand: Birthday. Sisters. Strip club.

It’s only when she’s home again, stripping off her clothes and redressing for bed, that she feels the card in her back pocket. A single red rectangle bearing the club’s name and number in thick black type. And on the back…

_Enchanté._

And a number. 

And a neatly spun capital D. 

Fist clenched carefully around the card, cautious not to bend its edges, Cosima slips the glasses off of her nose, sets them on the nightstand, and thinks Sarah might well have been responsible for the single best birthday of her life.


	2. Indie Rock Band

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Cophine: indie rock band

This is her favorite thing, hands down. Her very favorite, above all the weed in all the world, above eating, above  _science,_ even. Nothing quite beats  _this_. 

When Sarah Manning comes pounding on her door, rattling off some dumbass idea of  _indie rock bands, man, we could be huge_ , she laughs. She doesn’t shake her head or shove Sarah right back out the door, of course, but she laughs pretty damn hard. Because, yeah, Sarah can really shred, and sure, her lunatic sister’s got a great handle on the drums, but drums and guitar do not a band make. Even when Cosima drags her old keyboard out, they sound pretty terrible together. Helena can’t seem to follow the same beat for more than a few seconds, and Sarah’s fingers are bleeding all over the place, and they are  _a mess._

But they keep at it. Why not? It’s summer, and it gives them something to do—something that isn’t stealing puppies (Helena’s amassed quite a collection in the Manning’s closet, before Sarah makes her give them all back), or stealing liquor (most of June is spent holding back Sarah’s hair, keeping her upright as they stagger back from whatever idiot party she’s drummed up tonight), or sleeping until two in the afternoon. Something to do is good. They suck, but at least they’re  _happy_  sucking. 

When Sarah finds that quiet, solemn girl, Beth, and shoves a bass in her hands, Cosima doesn’t figure it’ll improve matters much—except, stunningly, it sort of does. Beth keeps rhythm better than anyone, and when she’s on point, Helena tends to fall right in line, too. Suddenly, they sound less like a bunch of wild dogs rasslin’ in the garage, and more like…well, actual  _music_. Cosima sort of digs it. Two months in, and she digs it actually kind of a  _lot_. 

She’s wicked surprised when Beth shows up to practice one day with a new girl—some blonde chick who stands taller than all of them, and who catches Cosima’s eye and smiles shyly. Even more surprising, the girl can freakin’  _belt_. There’s a throaty, mismatched quality to her voice, but it’s melodic, and when she really lets go, Cosima imagines she can actually hear her own panties hitting the floor. For the first time, they stop sounding like a hodgepodge of different sounds all struggling along together. For the first time, they sound  _good_. 

Delphine’s the one who gets them their first gig, and even though their name is a total joke— _Seestrahood_ , Helena had laughed one day, stoned off her head on some excellent grass, and Sarah had jokingly scrawled the word across the garage whiteboard—they do a damn good job. Before she knows it, they  _are_  Seestrahood, and they are rocking, and she thinks, maybe putting off grad school for a year to travel is not so bad an idea. 

Music is  _amazing_. 

And, though she’s pretty sure there’s, like, some kind of rocker code against banging your own lead singer, Delphine is pretty fucking amazing, too. 

They’re in the equipment room in the back of the bar, lights off, treating their fifteen-minute break like it just might last forever. Delphine’s got her sandwiched against the wall, one hand jammed up over her head, the other plunged deep into blonde curls. Delphine’s all thigh between her legs, hiking her skirt up around her hips, and Cosima is buzzing so high from the first set, she can’t even remember to  _breathe_  around the long, fierce kisses raining down on her. Delphine is so fucking  _tall_. She’s seriously into how tall Delphine is. 

Delphine keeps hissing into her ear, French curses and English admonishments. Her tongue is hot, curling around Cosima’s earlobe, sucking it between her teeth. Her hand finds Cosima’s waist, skids up, palms her breast in a hard, clutching motion that sends Cosima’s back arching off the wall, and—

"Shh, shh!"

They freeze, Cosima’s nails scraping Delphine’s scalp, Delphine with two fingers hooked into the waistband of her skirt. Wide-eyed and nearly hysterical with the thought of being caught out, they stand, forehead to forehead, panting. Listening. 

"Are we supposed to be back here?" An unfamiliar voice, curious and a little breathless. 

"Yes, yes, absolutely." Beth. Beth, leading some  _groupie_  back for a little frisky nonsense. Cosima would put money on which one it is, too: that cute little thing with the straight-skim bangs and the suburban-pastel wardrobe.  _God,_ Beth can pick ‘em. 

Delphine is giggling silently, but her thigh is still between Cosima’s legs, and  _fuck Beth_ , fifteen minutes is not that long. Cosima grinds down on her, setting a slow-roll pace, and Delphine’s giggles turn to groans against the side of her head. 

"Oh, this just feels—"

"Really fucking good," Cosima gasps back, riding her thigh, letting her head tip back until it clunks against the brick wall. 

"It feels very inappropriate," Delphine informs her dryly, which would be totally true, and totally interesting, if she wasn’t sliding her hand beneath the skirt at the same moment. Her fingers stroke across damp lace, and then they’re thrusting in, two at a time. Cosima bucks, knees going limp, and hikes one leg up around Delphine’s hip to keep from going down. 

On the other side of the room, she can hear tiny gasps and mewls, the soft, wet sounds of lips searing together and skidding apart again. It makes her want to laugh, but laughing and moaning are all bound up in her head, and she doesn’t trust herself to keep quiet. She settles for pumping her hips in time with Delphine’s hand, straining to suckle the side of Delphine’s throat. Marking her, sure; Sarah will definitely notice, definitely have something to say about it, but Sarah has plenty of baggage of her own. No room to judge there. 

Delphine fucks her slow, building a rhythm with her wrist bent, her fingers curled, her thumb stroking smooth across racing nerves. Delphine fucks her slow, and kisses the side of her head, and Cosima thinks the band is awesome, the band is really,  _really_  awesome, because she’s totally in love now. She thought she’d been in love before, when she was younger and stupider, and you’re  _not_ supposed to fall in love with your own lead singer—but  _shit_ , Delphine is good. Delphine sings like she’s trying to bring heaven to its knees, and Delphine kisses with long, lingering pressure, and she imagines she can still feel Delphine inside her, long after they’ve split off and headed home. That’s love. That’s the  _real_  kind of love. 

The music is great. The music gets them all together, keeps them bound up in a sort of joking, sort of totally  _not_  Seestrahood. The music gets Sarah a purpose, and Helena a focus, and Beth laid by that tiny little thing with the surprisingly filthy mouth (Cosima’s having a hard time tuning out her breathy, consistently higher repetitions of  _oh, Beth, oh, Beth, oh, Jesus sweet Christ_ ). The music gets them a lot. 

Most of all, the music gets her Delphine. 

She fucking  _loves_  this stupid little band. 

 


	3. Baggage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> hey! if you’re taking prompts cophine accidentally taking each other’s bags au

_Yeah…no…totes not my bag._

She’s less irritated than she probably ought to be. The whole  _airport done fucked up_  thing is a pain in the ass, for sure…but she can’t say she’s totally surprised. After all, the plane ride itself involved no fewer than three drinks dumped in her lap, a toddler who kept attempting to clamber out of her mother’s lap and onto Cosima’s own, and a memorable fifteen minutes where she actually thought the whole damn bird was going to drop straight out of the sky. It was  _not_  the best flight of her life—and to unzip her bag, and find…

_Really? Three separate bottles of conditioner? Come on._

She stands in her room, hands on her hips, staring with mild curiosity at the neat arrangements of books and clothing—nice slacks, mostly, and a serious of tank tops and professional-grade blouses—laid out in the suitcase which looked so much like her own on four hours of sleep. Up close, she can see a few stark differences (gray striping where hers is blue, two zipper pouches where hers has one), but  _whatever_ _, man._ Mistakes happen. 

For a second, she’s sure there will be no identification card, and that she’ll be saddled with this bag for the rest of time. She’ll have to contact the airport either way, hash it out with their baggage claim attendant, go through the whole hellish rigamarole of  _yeah, okay, but I need my shit—‘cuz, see, it’s sort of brimming over with important science_. She’s not looking forward to it. 

Although…

There’s science in this bag, too. Or, at least, there is a whole accordion folder’s worth of notes—host-parasite relationships, she notes from the cursory scan, among other things. Fascinating things, in fact. Slowly, she sinks onto her desk chair, fumbling left-handed in her desk for the blunt she keeps in there for just such occasions. 

_Because, y’know, this shit happens daily._

She smokes the whole thing clean through in the time it takes her to read ( _devour_  might be a better word—and cap that off with  _discuss_  and  _take vibrant notes whilst pacing the room and gesticulating_ _wildly_ ) the stranger’s notes. And  _then_ , bliss of bliss, she notices the business card clipped to the ass-end of the folder. 

_Huh. She’s here._

Not like— _here here_ , like in her fuckin’  _room_ , but on campus. Delphine Cormier, on the cusp of earning her Phd in immunology. Delphine Cormier. It’s a pretty name. 

And there’s a pretty phone number.

She’s pretty baked by the time she gets around to leaving a message, so she’s reasonably certain the voicemail is, like, nigh-unintelligible. But she gets the more salient details across (“Hey, hi, hello. Cosima. Erm, I mean, that’s my name. Cosima Niehaus. And I know you don’t know me, or, probably, care in the least, except I kinda have your bag? Which means you have mine. I hope. Really really hope. ‘Cuz I’ve got, like, a summer’s worth of evo-devo ramblings in there, and I’d  _really_  like to pass my, um. Life. This semester. So if you could maybe call me? That’d be rad.”), and before she knows it, the woman is calling her back. Her voice is deep, tinged with a heavy French accent. Sexy, in a totally verbal way. Cosima digs it. 

She digs it even  _more_  when the woman turns up at her door an hour and a half later, looking like a sheepish cocker spaniel with Cosima’s bag clutched in her right hand. She’s all white tank and tight black jeans, all big, desolate eyes, and  _yeah, I get the hair products now_. Cosima grins, rather more sober than she’d been on the phone, and wrinkles her glasses up on her nose. 

"Hey there. You’ve got my shit."

"And you have mine," Delphine agrees, smiling wryly. "I must apologize. I was in a rush on my way out—"

Cosima’s already waving her hands maniacally, even as she turns and strides back into the apartment without glancing back to see if Delphine is taking the hint. “No worries, no worries. I mean, that plane was a trip, right? Had me saying my Hail Mary’s at one point, and, like, I don’t even friggin’ pray. You want a drink?”

Delphine shakes her head. Cosima fills a glass with water for herself, mostly to give her hands something steady to do, and leans her weight against her desk. She watches the other woman move hesitantly to the bed, running the tips of her fingers across the neatly folded blouses at the top of her bag. 

"Hope you don’t mind," Cosima goes on, suddenly feeling the urge to say anything that might keep this woman in her space a little longer. "But I, uh, kind of peeked. At your papers, I mean. You’re hella smart."

Inwardly, she winces. Not as smooth as normal. That near-death experience followed by a mild inconvenience must really have done a number.

The woman, however, does not look put out by this confession. If anything, the color rising to her cheeks is almost sheepish, her lips curving in a crooked little smile. 

"May I make a confession of my own?"

Cosima gestures, a  _by all means_  flick of her fingers. Delphine bites her lip. 

"I may have peeked at your work, as well."

"Ohhh, man." Cosima grins. "Pity on your soul, man. It’s all frickin’ calligraphy up in that business. I know, i wrote most of it at three in the morning, stoned off my head."

Delphine looks rather surprised. “You did all of  _that_  while intoxicated?”

"Yeah, well. Think best when I’m flying." She mimes taking a hit, then knocks back half the glass of water before her mouth can continue running itself into a corner. Delphine’s expression shifts to one of amusement. 

"I see. You’ll have to show me sometime. I’m very curious about the effects of mind-altering substances on genius."

"Or the effects of genius on mind-altering substances," Cosima quips. Delphine tosses her another little smile, indulgent without being patronizing, over her shoulder even as she turns to zip her bag. Cosima’s heart stalls. Forget pretty; this woman is a goddamn knockout, and from the sparkle in her eye, Cosima guesses she knows it. That’s incredibly dangerous. 

And totally alluring. 

"I hope I see you around," she blurts, watching Delphine move somewhat clumsily toward the door again. "I mean, not gonna steal more of your stuff just to cement it, or whatever, but—it wouldn’t suck, you know?"

Delphine hesitates at the door, placing her bag at her feet and wrapping both arms around herself. “That would be…very nice,” she says slowly. “I’m new here this year.”

"Hey! Coincidences unite, man. So am I."

There is a strange relief making a stuttering constellation across the beautiful woman’s face. “It would be very nice,” she repeats. “To make a friend.”

_And they say baggage mix-ups are the biggest ass-puncture this side of waterboarding_ , Cosima thinks happily a few minutes later, with Delphine gone, and the name of her favorite coffeeshop a neatly-scrawled fixture on a bright blue Post-It. If this is the sort of woman she meets whenever airports fuck up, she’ll gladly lose track of her shit every damn week. 

Though…maybe not her notes. Those are kind of crazy important. 

Almost as important, she thinks, smiling down at Delphine’s loopy scrawl, as the date she’s just bagged.


	4. This Song Isn't Anti-American (It's Anti-War)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ninosbrain asked you:  
> Protester!Cosima and Cop!Delphine Cophine AU D:

”Fight the fuckin’ man!”

She’s never felt so alive in all her life, never quite tapped into the wild hum of genuine youth as she’s doing right now. Standing with all of these like-minded people, the ones who don’t jump on board with the straight-legged, tie-knot ideology of the conservative masses, makes her feel  _extreme_. But not, like, the batshit kind of extreme. She isn’t chucking blood onto fur coats, or whatever. She’s just so fucking  _happy_. 

The way these cops are looking at them—at her—sort of harshes that mellow a little, but screw ‘em. They aren’t doing anything wrong. If anything, the party in the wrong is the corrupt government, fucking with the humanitarian efforts of the bigger picture. If there’s anyone these cops ought to be glaring at, it’s The Man himself, with his finger on that big red button. 

"Fuck war in the  _teeth_!”

Okay, not her best, but it’s a damn sight better than the animal screams Manning keeps loosing next to her. Manning isn’t really about the politics of the situation so much as the excuse to pin furious buttons to her ragged leather jacket, the excuse to pump one fist exuberantly in the air, the excuse to roar herself raw. Manning is one of the batshit ones, Cosima thinks, and if the young woman weren’t her roommate, Cosima is pretty sure she’d steer clear of her altogether. But then she might have missed out on this whole party. 

And that would have been a goddamn travesty. 

The war is going to be big, she knows. The war has already divided this campus into thirds—Support, Anti, and Give No Fucks, which is where she assumes Manning would fall, if not for the  _getting to be an obnoxious mouth_  portion of this whole afternoon—and it’s barely even started yet. The way Cosima sees it, people are going to die, and for reasons barely above being totally shithouse, and that is severely uncool. The war is going to decimate an already unbalanced economy, and it’s going to  _ruin lives_. 

She wishes she knew how to get that across to all those blue bloods giving her the evil eye right now. 

There are three women in particular who have been assigned to guarding the stretch of protestors of whom Cosima has made herself part. Two of them—the brunette with the sharp expression and  _Childs_  tacked to her breast, and the tiny one with the straight bangs across her forehead and the obvious look of the  _why did I sign up for this_  rookie—seem fixed almost solely on Manning and her tiger shrieks. The third has eyes for Cosima alone. Which would be, y’know, totally enticing—if the woman, with her blonde hair and her serious eyes, didn’t keep laying a palm over her piece.  _  
_

"You gonna shoot me?" Cosima calls to her, somewhat more playfully than she maybe ought. She’s grinning, caught up in the natural high of the crowd, in the fist pumping and banner waving. Her 60s-style tie-dye shirt doubles as a dress, her dreads held back with a series of beaded ropes. She has never felt so goddamn  _classic_  in her life, and she privately thinks these cops are seriously missing out, hanging out on the other side of that barricade. 

The blonde officer arches a brow, looking her over, and almost smiles. Almost. “Are you going to tempt me?” she asks, and Cosima is  _delighted_  to hear a shred of accent under the words. Hot cop. Very cool. 

"You believe in this war?" she shouts over the line, waving both arms in the air. She tilts her head back and adds a howl, just for the sake of noise-making. The office politely waits until she has finished, her eyes flicking temporarily to Manning and her brother, Felix, who are both jolting up and down on the balls of their feet. 

"I believe in fighting for what you believe in," the officer replies at last. She takes a step closer to the barricade, and Cosima mirrors that step on her own side. Around her, the crowd seems to swell. The blonde officer— _Cormier_  is pinned to her chest—tightens her grip on that holstered weapon. 

"So, essentially," Cosima says, "you believe in fighting. Period. You condone murder?"

"I condone peace," the woman says smoothly, in a surprisingly calm voice for a cop who is listening to a barrage of  _fuck this fucking American arrogance_  and  _give me liberty from bloodthirst, or give me death_. “I believe peace comes to those who take the necessary steps.”

"Like murder," Cosima repeats, much too cheerfully. Officer Cormier shrugs. 

"You’re a college student screaming on a posh little campus. Believe what you will."

"Ouch," Cosima laughs. " _Condescending_. You’d be a lot sexier if you’d lose the attitude.”

"You’d be much more inspiring if you actually knew what you were shouting about," Cormier replies, not unkindly. "Men and women are dying for your freedom to do this very thing, you know."

"Yeah? I never asked them to do that.’

"You never asked me to wear this badge or patrol this campus," Cormier says, patiently enough. "We do the things to which we are called. Make no apologies for faith."

It strikes Cosima as suddenly absurd, that she might be standing in the middle of this frothing crowd, holding a perfectly sane conversation with the very cop assigned to keeping their rowdy rampage contained. Still, the woman is deeply attractive—and making the sort of eye contact you only make when you respect the person with whom you are arguing. It feels good. Unexpected. 

"Fuckin’ pigs!" Manning roars beside her, clapping Felix on the back and dissolving into manic laughter. Officer Childs grimaces. Unconsciously, Cosima mimics her expression. 

"Friend of yours?" Cormier asks lightly. Cosima shrugs. 

"Forced association. She means well, I think. Just—"

"Fuck your privileged-ass establishment!"

"—listens to a lot of  _The Clash_ ,” Cosima finishes, somewhat sheepishly. Cormier grins.  _  
_

"Be careful who you associate yourself with," she advises, stumbling a bit when another officer jolts into her side. "There’s anti-war, and then there is  _anti-war_.”

"Color me a difference," Cosima challenges. Officer Cormier bites her lip. 

"One could quite easily land you in a cell for reckless endangerment of your peers."

Cosima shrugs. “Fair enough.” She grunts, taking an elbow to the back of the head from an ecstatic sophomore. “Jesus.”

The cop reaches across the barricade, catching her by the arm. Her face is concerned. Cosima shakes her head.

"I’m cool. Teeth-rattling, y’know? All good."

"Be  _careful_ ,” Officer Cormier admonishes. Cosima smirks. 

"Dude, what are you gonna do? Arrest me so I dodge head injuries?"

Never missing a beat, Cormier removes a pair of handcuffs from her belt and dangles them from one finger. “I would not be opposed.”

Cosima is still laughing, feeling wild and surreal, when Sarah Manning launches herself at the barricade, and the rookie with the bangs shrieks and rams a taser into Manning’s shoulder. Cosima gapes. 

"Shit, man. Talk about impulse control."

Cormier groans. 


	5. You're The Puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Hi! Could you maybe write a Cophine AU where someone gave Delphine a puppy as a birthday present, and when she goes to puppy obedience training, she meets that cutie pie Cosima who works there as a side-job while she pursues her PhD, please?

It’s all a mess of fluff and pink tongue and squirming, and Delphine is literally  _one foot_  through the door when she nearly drops the whole bundle and decides, no. She did  _not_  need a puppy for her birthday. 

But it’s a little late to be thinking things through in such a scientific manner, all reason and accountability, because Hypo (“Get it?” Leekie had said, with that grin which almost always makes her want to slap him, boss or not. “Hypo—because…of the…needles?” “Very clever,” she’d muttered back, wholly unable to be furious, because her attending physician had just  _given her a puppy_ ) is too cute for words. Also, she respects Leekie wildly as her direct superior in that hospital, and the idea of pushing his very thoughtful gift back into his arms strikes her as deeply impolite. 

So, keeping the dog, she certainly is—but that means getting it trained. She has far too many nice shoes to risk letting the little furball figure life out on its own terms. 

"Woah!" A young woman with dreadlocks piled atop her head, glasses slipping down her nose, thrusts both arms out just in time to snatch Hypo out of the air. "What’ve we got here?"

"Trouble," Delphine tells her, palming back the hair from her eyes and puffing out a frustrated breath. The woman grins, all teeth, no restraint.

"Maybe naming your little—" She pauses, hiking the puppy up with no self-consciousness at all. "Boy ‘Trouble’ was your first mistake? Just gonna tap-dance my way out onto that limb."

"It isn’t his  _name_ ,” Delphine says, laughing despite herself. “That would have been much more apt. Hypo. We call him Hypo.”

"You and your boyfriend?" the woman guesses. At the sound of his name, Hypo gives a particularly violent little wriggle; unconcerned, the woman tucks him up beneath her arm like a golden football. Delphine shakes her head. 

"My attending."

"Attending to what?" The woman’s tongue pokes cheekily out from between her teeth. "Just kiddin’. Med student?"

"First year resident."

"Doesn’t leave a lot of time for a furry friend," the woman observes. Delphine closes her eyes, pressing two fingers to her temple.

"I know."

"It’s rough," the woman goes on, jostling the puppy gently up and down. He has his head tipped back, brown eyes fixed on her with the most innocent hero worship Delphine has ever seen. Assuming animals can develop hero worship. She suspects if any can, it would be her dog. "I’m in school myself, going after my PhD—this place is just for some extra cash so I’m not, like,  _drowning_  in debt when I get out.”

She gestures around with her free hand, almost too wildly for Delphine to follow. A grin is pulling at her own lips now, utterly without her say in the matter. This woman is the very definition of infectious, and when she bends down and sets Hypo on the floor, rubbing his ears, he is more relaxed than Delphine has seen him in two and a half days. 

"You are a miracle worker," she informs the woman, her admiration utterly unfeigned. The woman glances up and drops a blink-and-you-miss-it wink. 

"You have no idea."

She introduces herself—Cosima, and her handshake is as firm as it is warm, her fingers bolstered with silver rings which click together when she flails around—and explains the basic functions of the obedience training. “Mostly, it’s the whole sit, stay, behaving like a polite member of four-legged society deal. Six weeks, easy rates. We’re good. Well. I’m good.”

And she grins again. Delphine can’t help but smile back, hands in her pockets, feeling very much as though this woman could simply walk off with Hypo now without so much as a glare boring into her back. Certainly, he seems calm and happy in her presence, pushing his nose against her hands, licking fanatically across her face when she bends too near. 

Delphine catches herself thinking,  _I really can’t blame him_ , and her brain stutters. Catches. Releases the thought into the wild again. She’s had too long a week, too long a  _year_. She’s starting to go a little starry-eyed around the edges. 

"You in?" Cosima asks. Delphine jumps. 

"I’m sorry?"

"Six weeks okay? I know your schedule must be pretty cramped and all, but we can flex the hours. Long as I’m not in class, I’m usually here, so…" She flashes her teeth again, shrugging. "Can’t really afford a pup of my own, but I love the little dudes, you know?"

That much, Delphine thinks, is obvious. “He seems to like you. I, erm…” She rubs the back of her neck, suddenly embarrassed. “He hasn’t taken to me that way. I’m…not terribly good with animals, I suppose.”

Cosima rises to her full height—not a very impressive one, Delphine notes—and gives her a surprisingly solemn once-over. “Everybody’s good with animals,” she says at last. “The training just kinda goes both ways sometimes. No worries.”

She touches Delphine’s shoulder, fleetingly, and reaches down to scoop Hypo into her arms again. “You in?” she repeats. Delphine smiles, awkward and more than a little intrigued. The girl is kind, it’s obvious, and genuine enough. She likes her very much. 

"I am in," she agrees. Cosima brightens all over, flushing with the pleased glow of a nine-year-old who has just been awarded a trip to Disneyland. 

"Awesome! This is gonna be totally great, don’t even worry. Okay. Step one: you’re the puppy."

Delphine cocks her head, puzzled. “Pardon?”

"You’re the puppy," Cosima repeats, patiently. "That’s the whole thing new puppy parents forget. Like, they’re totally new to the world, and all our rules and stuff—but  _you’re_  totally new to having them around, too. You ever keep a dog before?”

Delphine shakes her head, understanding. 

"There’s a lot to learn," Cosima says, making it sound as easy a thing as pouring a glass of water. She stretches out with the hand not grasping Hypo, tapping Delphine twice on the arm. "Don’t worry, though. I gotcha."

Hypo yips once, happily. Cosima joggles him up and down and tilts her head toward the back of the shop. 

"This is gonna be fun."


	6. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ninosbrain asked you:  
> I REMEMBERED it properly! Cophine: Strangers First Kiss Video where the girls are pulled in off the street to do a Kiss a Stranger video like those viral vids going around and yeees

”I don’t…” Hands, over her face. Giggling. She’s not the giggling type, but she giggles now, because how else do you handle something like…

"Hey." Fingers, twitching hello. She’s grinning. Stupid, big, goofy, all sharp canine and brilliant flash. She likes to smile, normally, but this is different. This is awkward, and beautiful, and this woman is…

"I’m—" She says her name. The other woman is thrusting a hand forward, tiny, speckled with silver. She takes it delicately in her own, gives a light shake. 

"Yeah, I mean, i thought it’d be fun." Fun, yeah, totes. It’s just a stranger. It’s just a kiss. Good cause, too; she likes the idea that physical intimacy can be natural, simple, without drawing all that anxiety and fluttering double-thinking crap. 

"I’ve never done this. Before." She doesn’t quite know why she feels the need to validate this moment. She senses no judgement at all in the other woman’s gaze, in her big, dopey grin, or the smile lines around her bright eyes. Still, she says it. Smiles sheepishly. Drops her gaze. 

"Hey, no, me either. Just…I mean, if you’re uncomfortable, for sure, you don’t have to—" A shrug. She pushes at the bridge of her glasses, reflexive. There shouldn’t be any anxiety in this moment; she doesn’t know this woman, can’t possible care what she thinks. Still, the words tumble off her tongue. 

"No, no, I’m—it’s all right." Pushing a lock of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. The woman’s eyes follow the motion, and she feels her face flush hot. It’s a good embarrassment, somehow. Natural. She’s never thought about this before. It never crossed her mind that she’d be paired with another woman.

"You sure?" A gently inquisitive tilt of the head. A glance over her shoulder, waiting for the cue. The woman is nodding, quick-jab motions, like a bird. It’s endearing. It’s gorgeous. 

"Are we—yes? Now? Any time?" She is suddenly acutely aware of the camera, of the man with his face pressed to the viewfinder, of the woman with her broad motions and  _go get ‘em_ grin. Her hands clasp behind her back, then release, swing around to her front. She is nervous. 

"I’m—gonna—I mean, if it’s cool? Is it cool?" Relief, when the woman nods again. She’s up on her toes now, hesitating, giving the woman time to adjust to her proximity. A pause. A breath. They’re close enough to share, and she likes that. Likes the idea of breathing so near to someone whose life she has never known before this moment. 

Lips, supple and smooth. One press, light, and quick, and then away again. A breath. She’s not sure who leans back in, forehead brushing forehead, skin sliding dry and nervous and excited. She’s not sure whose hand cups whose elbow, whose fingertips pan across a taut, shivering jaw. She isn’t sure whose lips part first, whose tongue flickers against whose teeth, tracing the angular shapes one by one. It’s a seal then, unbroken and lovely, the stroke of breath and licking, tentative pressure. She leans closer, feels the skin at the nape of her neck prickle when a hand closes there, thumb caressing with surprising tenderness. She smiles against the stranger’s lips, and feels her smile swallowed whole. A good feeling. Like a promise from summer itself. 

When they break, it’s all breath. Her hair is mussed, from fingertips snagged. Her face is flushed, her glasses slightly askew. They’re laughing. Neither knows which of them started, but they can’t seem to stop. 

"I’ve never…"

"Me either." 

"It was…"

"Totally my pleasure."

A grin, all sharp canine and bright gleam. A hand, pressed happily over flushed lips. Their eyes catch, flicker clear, draw back together again. 

They’ve never met.

That’s what makes it wonderful. 


	7. There's A Time And A Place (For White Knights)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt requested (verbally, because she just sits on the couch and throws prompts at me now): Cophine, bar setting, getting hit on and rescued from the same

” _Loving_  the hair.”

Cosima raises her head from her book, glancing sideways down the bar. It takes a lot to pull her attention away from Darwin most days; she’s had hours of classes, labs, and work to contend with, and on a Thursday night, the last thing she’s looking for is someone else’s shit. Everything has its time and place. Messing around with total strangers belongs to the third Saturday of the month, when her half-sister strolls into town with her flaming-gay bestie, and every club within twenty miles feels the wrath of  _Manning and Niehaus_. 

(She’s still working on the name. Sarah doesn’t seem to get how  _lame_  that sounds. Like they’re friggin’ Bonnie and Clyde or some shit.)

Regardless, time, place—and this is neither. This is a pleasant Thursday evening. This is  _Cosima time_ , quiet and in her own head, mulling over today’s theories with a soft indie beat playing from one earbud. Normally. 

But that guy is  _really_  starting to skeeve on her last nerve.

It’s not even that he’s absurdly loud, though she thinks that might be penance enough in this chill-ass Minnesota bar. It’s more that the woman he keeps aggressively complimenting is giving every possible sign of playing a mental game of Anywhere But Here. Her body is tilted away from him, her eyes darting helplessly around the room. She is all but  _screaming_  for a white knight—or, at the very least, someone to shit-kick Prince Charming in the ballsack to cut her a break. 

Which is just a  _little_  more force than Cosima is willing to exert, given her five-foot-four frame, but…

"Babe!"

She’s cringing internally at the expression of sheer horror on the woman’s beautiful face.  _Go with it, I’m saving your bacon_ , she pleads silently, raising her eyebrows even as she slides into the seat beside the stranger and lays an intimate hand on her upper arm. 

"I’m so sorry I’m late," she says cheerfully, giving the arm a squeeze. The man is squinting at her, suspicious. 

"Who’re you?"

"Girlfriend," Cosima informs him airily, in the tone of a woman who  _has zero interest in your fugly face, please distance yourself immediately from the premises._ The woman she is in the midst of rescuing opens her mouth as if to argue. Cosima tips her chin down, striving to make herself look as unthreatening as possible. 

The man is scowling. “Girlfriend,” he repeats, like it’s some new breed of four-letter word. “Where ya been, then,  _girlfriend_?”

"Bathroom," Cosima replies, short and sweet. She pins him with a huge, dangerously bright smile, and slides the hand on the woman’s arm around her shoulders. Easing her gently backward from the stool, she reaches with her free hand and collects the glass the woman has been studiously sipping from. "C’mon, I saved you a place over here…"

"You’ve  _been_  over there,” the man accuses. He’s slurring, and Cosima takes a silent moment to regret every choice that might have led her to getting her face smacked in by a drunk hick. “You weren’t in the bathroom at all.”

"How sweet of you to keep an eye out." She turns her back on him, propelling the beautiful stranger toward her own spot at the bar. "C’mon, sweetie, I just hit this really killer place in the book, you’re gonna love it—"

"What are you doing?" the woman asks, her voice low. Cosima shrugs. 

"Putting my hot ass where it so does not belong. Want me to pull out?"

The woman glances back over her shoulder. The man is following at a slow, stumbling pace. She whips her eyes forward again, leaning into Cosima’s grasp. 

"It is not  _working_.”

_Balls._ She fires a glance back, frowning heavily. “Hey. Private party, dickshit.”

"You were sitting there," he snaps. "You’ve been there  _all night_. She ain’t your fuckin’ girlfriend. She’s just a—”

Cosima turns on her heel. The rational part of her mind is leaping up on down on the balls of its hypothetical feet, waving hypothetical hands fervently in front of its hypothetical face.  _Stop, stop, what are you doing?_

_Don’t know_ , she replies with a grim sort of exhilaration, even as she stalls right in the man’s face. He’s got six inches on her, and his breath is fetid. She jams a finger beneath his nose. 

"She wants nothing to do with your sorry ass, dude. High-tail your shit out of here, before I—"

_What? Call in my half-sister to kick your teeth in?_ Christ, does she think she’s actually  _Sarah_  right now, all lightning reflexes and animal instinct? Sarah would have smashed a bottle over this dude’s head already, and been laughing while she did it, but Cosima is very much  _not_ Sarah Manning. 

The woman is pulling on her arm, gentle, but firm. “Please, he is not worth—”

"She’s  _not_  your girlfriend,” the man says, almost petulantly. His eyes are flicking from one to the other, tiny gray pebbles skipping across a viscous lake. Cosima shrugs. 

"Whatever, bro."

"If she’s your girlfriend—" His foot hooks around a stool, nearly taking him down. Cosima resists a totally suicidal urge to laugh. She’s leaning back, into the woman’s hands, which are warm and insistent on her upper arms. She should turn, she knows. Should ignore this dumb hick fuck. Should get her book, and drop some cash on the bar, and let this woman lead her out the door. This isn’t her problem. 

"If she’s your girlfriend, fuckin’  _prove it_.”

"What is she, Schrödinger’s girlfriend?” Cosima snorts. “Not giving you proof, man. It’s not your damn business.”

_It would be a spectacular decision,_  a voice in her head, sounding magnificently like Felix Dawkins, suggests,  _if you just turned tail and bolted now. No more science taunts, mmkay, darling? Not that sort of night._

The woman is leaning forward into her, breasts soft against Cosima’s back, and even in the middle of this shitstorm, she can’t help but think,  _Yeah, she’s hot. And I’m a total suck-ass. And this_ sucks _._ "Come on. Come  _on_.”

Her voice is surprisingly mellow, her eyes flashing hot. The man is deflating a bit beneath their bite. Cosima grins. 

"See? The lady isn’t interested."

"Doesn’t make her your fuckin’ girlfriend, dyke," he mutters, and before Cosima can think of a properly witty response, the blonde woman steps out from behind her, raises a hand, and  _slaps_  him across the face. The  _crack_  reverberates up and down the bar. Cosima is slack-jawed.

"Y-you hit him. You  _hit him_.”

"That," the woman says, almost primly, her accent wrapped around the words like a gorgeously tailored gown, "was extremely rude."

"You hit me," the guy says, sounding, if possible, even more surprised than Cosima. The bartender, a woman in her mid-forties with a  _fuck with me, and regret it_  expression, leans over. 

"Way I see it, if she didn’t get around to it quick, we’d all be linin’ up for a shot. Might want to get stepping, my friend."

Cosima doesn’t stick around to see if he follows instructions or not. The blonde woman is reaching for her book with one hand, wrapping the other around Cosima’s wrist, and marching both of them straight out the door. Cosima glances back over her shoulder, helpless. 

"I—need to pay—"

"She will add it to my tab," the woman says crisply. Cosima shakes her head. 

"Dude. Dude, you are  _badass_.”

They’re three blocks from the bar when the woman finally takes her foot off the proverbial gas pedal and swings around to face her. “You did not have to get involved,” she insists. “That was foolish.”

"Um, yo, you  _slapped_  a dude,” Cosima reminds her, grinning despite the total not-funny of the situation. “Think we may need to re-evaluate the—”

She finishes off with a muffled  _oomph_  that does not remotely resemble words as the woman’s mouth crashes down on her own. She kisses like she slaps, all force, no thought, her head twisting and angling as she pushes Cosima back against a store window. Cosima’s eyelashes flutter, her brain singing high, dizzy notes. 

It’s all pressure and slightly-bitter aftertaste, until the woman wrenches away and presses a hand to her mouth. Her cheeks are blazing, her eyes bright. Cosima huffs for oxygen, hands clutched at her sides. 

"I—was totally gonna save you," she mumbles, feeling childish and a little wonderstruck. The woman raises an eyebrow. 

"I’m quite capable of rescuing myself," she says. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Thank you."

"You—" She’s having a fuck of a time getting her head on straight.  _So to friggin’ speak._ "But you kissed—"

"You were kind," the woman says, softening. "Foolish. But kind. And…" She bites her lip, smiling slightly. "Schrödinger’s girlfriend?”

Cosima pushes off the shop window, grinning a little. “Sounded good, didn’t it?”

The woman tosses her hair back when she laughs, and Cosima thinks,  _I make a shithouse white knight, don’t I?_

But, honestly, she kind of digs a chick who doesn’t  _need_  a white knight, and  _damn_ _—_

There’s a time and a place, totally. Thursday. McKeernan’s Bar. Good a time and place as any to stick her nose where it absolutely does not belong.

At least where women like  _this_  are involved. 


	8. Bus Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Prompt: Last bus home. Delphine is walking pasts the stop. Cosima runs for the bus and drops her stuff but as Delphine tries to help her pick up everything the bus leaves. Cue a walk to Delphine’s and *wink wink*.

”Ah,  _shitfuckshit_.”

Delphine hesitates, twisting at the waist to glance back. It’s late, and it’s chilly, and the last thing she really needs is to  _stop_  in the middle of the night—but the woman’s voice is ringing miserably on the October air. No one drops that many oaths in that sort of string if they cannot benefit from aid. 

And aid, this woman certainly does need. She’s on her knees, scrambling to catch pages as they flit every which way, and she is doing an absolutely miserable job. Delphine takes all of two seconds to weigh her options, just before a page smacks her dead in the face. It’s a good enough sign. 

"Thank you," the woman groans, glancing up in time to see Delphine perform a particularly impressive snatch from thin air. She comes up with a crumpled fistful of papers, her smile apologetic. 

"Are they important?"

"Like,  _really_ ,” the woman confirms, pushing her glasses up on her nose with a practiced wrinkle of her pretty face. She’s dressed in a thick red coat, but her dress is unbearably short, and the asphalt is tearing her black tights to shreds. She’s shivering as she makes a mad grab for a page, misses, and succeeds only in scraping the skin from her palm. “Shit.”

"I don’t suppose you have another copy?" Delphine is recovering a page from the shrubbery beside the bus stop bench, wondering even as she holds the damp, twisted page up to the lamplight if it is worth it. Certainly, this can’t be turned in for  _credit_  of any kind now, not with all of these muddy smudges and stains. The woman turns a wounded look up at her, eyes wide behind her glasses. 

"Fuck. Forget it. It’s no good— _fuck.”_

The bus company deserves a strongly-worded letter, Delphine notes, watching the behemoth of a vehicle thunder by. The woman sits up on her knees, staring after it with an expression of utter disconsolation. 

"That was the last damn one," she says, her voice ragged. " _Shit_. You know how far from here I live?” _  
_

"Further than a block, I suppose." Delphine bends down, offering the pages she has managed to collect. The woman’s mouth twists. "I’m sorry."

"No worries," the woman sighs, accepting the pages and stuffing them haphazardly into the ruined bookbag from which they escaped. "It’s not super cold, I can just…hoof it, I guess."

She’s wincing as she pushes herself to her feet, and Delphine rises with her, supporting her by the elbow. Her smile is grateful, even as she lifts her scraped hand and inspects it absently. 

"Wow. I mean, Jesus. Just that kinda night, right?"

"My apartment is not far," Delphine offers, watching the woman sling the bag awkwardly over her shoulder. "I could…"

"Play doctor?" the woman teases. Delphine shrugs, smiling faintly, and she sighs again. "Sure, yeah. Why not. Better than bleeding all the way back to my place."

She’s limping slightly, so Delphine catches her beneath the arm. It’s largely instinctive, and she surprised when the woman smiles crookedly up at her, looking for all the world like this is the first pleasant thing a stranger has ever done for her. 

"I’m Cosima, by the way."

"Delphine," she replies. Cosima shrugs. 

"Cool. I mean, be much cooler if I didn’t meet beautiful women while being a total basketcase and losing half my dissertation, but whatevs."

Delphine gives her arm a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t suppose you have it copied somewhere?”

"Would you believe me if I said I dropped the flash drive in a puddle the size of the Pacific?"

"Given your apparent history with the elements…yes, I believe that would be reasonable." She’s trying not to smile. Cosima groans. 

"My life, man. My goddamn life."

All things considered, Delphine would not begrudge her whining all the way  to the apartment, but Cosima’s good spirits seem to be returning at an Olympic pace. By the time they’ve gone a block, she’s grinning; two blocks, she’s explaining the finer parts of her (now decimated) paper to Delphine, and by the time they reach the front door, she’s leaning her weight against the wall, peering down at her ruined tights, and commenting, “This actually kind of has a badass vibe to it. I could make it work.”

"Or," Delphine says reasonably, "you could let me lend you something intact."

"Spoilsport." Tongue between her teeth, Cosima follows her in, kicking off her shoes. "Care where I toss my coat?"

Delphine flaps a hand in the negative and points to the squashy couch against the far wall. “Sit, please. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns with bandages and antiseptic, she finds Cosima sprawled on the couch, leaning over to inspect the DVD rack. She tugs a footstool over and plants herself on its edge, tapping Cosima gently on the knee. 

"Give me your hand."

Cosima does, tearing her eyes away from Delphine’s sparse movie collection. “So you’re actually French, then?”

Delphine arches a brow, carefully clearing gravel from the shallow scrape across Cosima’s palm. “Yes.”

"Rock on." Cosima winces once, but when her expression clears, she is smiling. "I’m a Cali girl, myself. You ever been?"

Delphine shakes her head, patiently cleaning and bandaging the hand even as Cosima slips into a whirlwind explanation of why she  _totally_  has to go sometime,  _like, even for a week_. She’s grinning by the end of it, absurdly charmed by Cosima’s exultations. 

"I will put it in my calendar," she assures her, giving a cursory glance to Cosima’s damaged knees. "What about those?"

"Meh." Wagging a hand, Cosima reaches down, hooks two fingers in the largest tear, and rips the tights wide open. Delphine swallows a burst of inappropriately loud laughter. 

"That seemed a bit excessive, pardon my saying so."

"Excessive is trying to flag down a forty-page paper at midnight," Cosima counters. She tips her head, considering. "Nice of you to try to help, though. You’re—I mean, not a lot of people would have stopped."

Delphine stands, shoulders lifting and falling gently. “You needed someone.”

"Well, yeah, but—" She pauses, shrugging. "Yeah. Guess I did."

"Would you like me to call you a cab?" Delphine offers. "I could lend you some, erm. Pants." 

She’s flushing, stupidly, hotly. Cosima’s legs are crossed, her tights in absolute tatters beneath her rumpled dress. Her eyes are bright in the dim lamplight, her face a pink, hopeful canvas across which her smile gleams. 

"You don’t have to. It’s not that cold, I could—"

"It  _is_  that cold,” Delphine argues. “I’ve just walked with you all the way here. So, as far as I’m concerned, there are two choices here.”

"Bossy," Cosima teases, leaning back against the cushions. Delphine smiles. 

"You may borrow a pair of pants, and allow me to call you a cab."

"No money," Cosima says calmly. "Just had my bus pass. Next choice, please."

"You may borrow a pair of pants, and allow me to lend you my couch for the evening," Delphine replies, her voice smoother than she feels. Her eyes keep trailing back to Cosima’s neatly folded legs, scratched pink around the kneecaps. Her chest feels oddly tight, particularly when Cosima grins up at her. 

"Just the couch? If you were a  _real_  friend, you’d lend me your cozy bed.”

"I don’t know about that," Delphine replies, struggling not to laugh. Cosima pouts. 

"C’mon! I’m a damsel. Was totes in distress. This is the final piece of the puzzle."

"Perhaps," Delphine drawls. "But I suspect, from our brief meeting, that you are the sort of woman who hogs covers. And sharing is not my forte."

She disappears into the bathroom again, hiding her grin. As she’s replacing the bandages in their cupboard, she hears a light thump, and the pad of Cosima’s bare feet on her carpet. 

"Fair enough," Cosima says from the doorway. Delphine can see her in the mirror, all tipped head and mischievous smile. "No bed. But I have one more condition."

Delphine glances back over her shoulder. “Mm?”

"You let me make you breakfast in the morning," Cosima suggests. "Bacon. Eggs. Waffles. I could try the crepes thing, but I might burn the whole place down." And then, when Delphine opens her mouth to say this isn’t remotely necessary: "Oh, come on. I’d do the same for any woman letting me sleep over."

She’s back in the living room before she adds the final bit, the one that pushes Delphine over the edge into giggles: “Even if they  _do_  make me wear pants.”

Delphine bows her head against the glass, grinning. “Fine then. Breakfast. But no fire alarms.”

"No promises."


	9. Artist's Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt prompt #2: Photographer and model.

There is a lock of hair in her eyes. 

This seems to happen every time, at every shoot, without fail. Her hair simply has a mind of its own, stubborn and wild, no matter how much product is sprayed to pin it down. She is praised for it too regularly, this hair of hers. No one seems to understand how infuriating it chooses to be.

She stretches up a hand, slowly, brushing the hair from her face. Her fingers have barely touched the offending lock when the young woman behind the camera leans around her tripod, grinning. 

"Not to, uh, get all up in your business, but if you could—not?"

"Touch?" Delphine fills in, smiling faintly. She’d been trying to be subtle about the action. No photographer ever seems fond of a model  _messing with the product_  mid-shoot. Though this woman at least looks pleasant as she nods hard enough to send her carefree dreadlocks spilling up over her shoulders. 

"Not to cramp your personal style, or whatevs, it’s just—y’know, the hair department gets super touchy about messing with their art. You know how it is.  _Artist types_.”

She makes a show of rolling her eyes, pulling her shoulders forward as if to say,  _AmIrite?_  Delphine gestures to the camera, amused. 

"So you are not, as you say, an  _artist type_?”

"Nah." The photographer swipes both hands cleanly through the air, scrubbing this notion clear. Her teeth are bold in a wide-stretched mouth, her glasses slipping down her nose. She has been in this room five minutes now without once introducing herself to her singular model. Delphine finds this fascinating. 

"You are the one with the camera, yes?" she presses, shifting her weight from one high heeled foot to the other. The young woman shrugs, bending behind the camera in question once more and adjusting a knob Delphine can’t quite see. 

"I mean, yeah, sure, if you wanna pigeonhole me like that."

"What—you are a  _photographer_!” She’s laughing. The woman looks up, amused, but trying to look stern. 

"Stand still, I’m setting the shadows."

"Only an artist would presume to control  _shadow_ ,” Delphine informs her. She doesn’t normally get along so well with her photographers—they come in, they shoot, they get out again, and they’re usually absurdly bossy from start to finish—but this one is delightful. Particularly while trying to grimace at her, her mouth twitching sharply toward a smile. 

“ _Shush._ I’m  _working_.”

"You’re incorrigible," Delphine tells her, grinning. The woman winks. 

"I’m charming, and a pleasure to have in the classroom, actually. So said all my teachers."

"Who never would have lied to such a humble child, I’m sure." She turns her body obediently when the photograph gestures, lifting her chin and giving an expert pout. The woman snaps a few shots and applauds. 

"Oh,  _bravo_. Lookin’ good. Lookin’—what is this for, again?”

"You don’t know?" Delphine drops her eyes, letting her hair fall seamlessly across her forehead. The woman’s nimble, silver-ringed fingers flutter— _click, click, click_. 

"Hey, I just show up."

"Aren’t you meant to be a bit more responsible?" Delphine wonders, casting a long, sultry look over her left shoulder.  _Click. Click._ The photographer rolls her eyes. 

"I got the gist. Pretty girl, nice clothes, make it look  _fancy_. And sexy.”

"Sexy is essential?" Delphine asks, smiling broadly.  _Click_. 

"Please, even the maternity catalogues want  _sexy_.”

"This is a soda ad," Delphine informs her. The woman gives her a cheeky little grin.

"Ah, yeah, this ain’t gonna cut it, then. Ramp it up! Your sex appeal ought to be Gaga level, if you’re selling Coke."

Delphine bursts into laughter, bending slightly at the waist as she struggles to regain her composure.  _Click. Click_. “You can’t use those!”

“‘Course not,” the woman agrees. “You’re just hella pretty when you’re laughing.”

"But you’re no artist," Delphine says. She watches the woman make some speedy adjustments to her settings before removing the camera from its tripod altogether, pulling it up to her face. She moves in slowly, knees slightly bent, angling to catch Delphine from the right. 

"Nope. Biology major. This is just, y’know."

"A hobby?"

"Extra cash flow."  _Click_. “My dad got me into it. He’s a shit-sight better than I am, but he’s—”  _Click._ "—hanging out way across the country, so I—"  _Click_. “—pick up the free-lancing gigs when I can, and send him my shots.”

"You’ve been featured often?" She tosses back her hair, careful not to use her hands.  _Click, click._

"This will be my fourth prestigious online publication, yes," the woman says, doing an admirable job of quashing the pride in her voice. She pauses, lowering the camera and simply staring at Delphine. Delphine lets her look. She likes the sensation of those eyes on her, of the woman’s steadiness. It’s nothing like the men who have shot her before, all aggressive shouts and groping hands. This woman has not moved even once to adjust her position, much less shouted at her; it’s wildly refreshing. 

"Prestigious online publication," Delphine repeats musingly. "For soda."

"Prestigious soda," the woman corrects. Delphine shakes her head. 

"You are very impressive."

"I know." A flash of tongue, poking through the woman’s teeth. She is raising the camera again, a black-and-silver beast of a thing nearly the size of her head. Delphine feels her smile turn wry. 

"So impressive," she says calmly, "that you have not even bothered to introduce yourself to your subject."

There is a beat of dead silence. Slowly, the camera sinks lower, revealing in measures a flash of the woman’s horrified eyes, her sprawling mouth, her paling face. 

"Oh. My god. I didn’t."

"No," Delphine agrees. "I said my name, and you…"

The woman groans, letting the camera press against her flat stomach. “ _Shit_. I keep  _doing_  that.”

"Forgetting to introduce yourself?"

"It just—" She gives a flustered little wave with one hand. "It didn’t seem important. I mean, there was—with the lighting, and the tripod, and trying not to do the blithering idiot thing—which I’m now…totally failing at. Awesome."

Delphine’s a little concerned she is going to begin gesturing just as emphatically with her other hand, slinging her beautiful, expensive camera straight onto the ground in the process. Gently, she steps in close and retrieves the Nikon, placing it with a certain amount of professional reverence on a nearby table, already strewn with a series of extra lenses. “No bother. Your name is…?”

"Cosima." A hand jerks itself forward, slipping beneath her nose. Delphine grasps it firmly, smiling. "I’m Cosima. And usually  _far_  more brilliant than this, I promise.”

"That’s all right," Delphine says cheerfully, allowing Cosima to pump her hand up and down. "It’s perfectly understandable."

"Yeah?" Cosima lights up. "Thanks. Thank you. Really, I’m—"

"It’s a difficult job," Delphine smooths on without hesitation. "There is so much to be done, so much to keep straight."

"Right, right, I just—"

"Distraction is, after all…" She grins. "The artist’s way." _  
_

The woman is staring at her, somewhat blankly. Her hand is warm in Delphine’s, her grip drooping somewhat. Her mouth pulls up in a lopsided grin.

"See what you did there."

"Yes?"

"Yup. Mmhmm. You—" She shakes her head, but she is not pulling her hand away, and Delphine finds she does not mind this, the weight of strong fingers wrapped around her own. "You’re kinda sassy, you know that?"

"I’m only trying to keep up," Delphine says, innocently. Cosima laughs. 

"All right, all right. Stand still. We’re trying to sell  _soda_ here, dontcha know. Be quiet and let me  _art_.”

 


	10. The Double Helix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt prompt #3: Bartender/regular guest.

The Double Helix is, hands down, her favorite bar. It’s nerdy. It’s  _classy_. The jukebox seems to stock nothing but The Clash and Daft Punk, which makes absolutely  _zero_  sense, and she digs it. Most of all, she digs the tag-team owners, how they have no patience whatsoever for dickweeds, for abrasive drunken behavior, or for people interrupting her work flow at the bar. Of all the bars just off campus, the Double Helix is easily the freshest. 

She’s here six times a week.

"Startin’ to think you might have a problem, yeah?" Sarah Manning snaps a towel in her direction, grinning from ear to ear. Cosima lifts her head from her palm, tongue poking through her teeth. 

"I’m drinking  _water_.”

"That’d be your problem," Sarah affirms, and plunks down an Angry Orchard before Cosima can say another word. She skid-slides across the floor in her socks, crashing into the far side of the bar hip-first. As far as Cosima can tell, Sarah refuses to jam her feet into her scuffed motorcycle boots unless she’s venturing out from behind the bar—and, with Delphine running point as server, she almost never has to do a silly thing like that. 

Delphine, at this very moment, is soothing a young woman with razorblade bangs across her forehead. “Would you like an appetizer on the house?”

"He stood me  _up_ ,” the woman is saying, her voice quavering. “I can’t believe this, he actually  _stood me up_.”

"Better off without him," Sarah calls over the bar. Delphine flaps a rag at her, seeking quiet. 

"I’m sure he’s only running late. An appetizer, yes? Onion rings?"

The young woman sniffles, fumbling in her purse for her bright pink cell phone, and nods. Delphine squeezes her shoulder. “Coming right up.”

She meets Cosima’s gaze as she circles back around, nudging her shoulder lightly as she passes. “Bonsoir, Cosima. Doing well?”

Cosima grins. “Excellent, yeah. Hey, uh—” Her hand finds Delphine’s wrist, soft and pliable above the band of her watch. “What’s her deal?”

"Poor excuse for a boyfriend," Delphine whispers back, leaning in so close, her hair brushes Cosima’s cheek. She drops a quick wink and points to the fresh bottle at Cosima’s right hand. "You know it’s Tuesday?"

Cosima jerks a thumb at Sarah, who looks up with wide, innocent eyes.

"Believe none of her lies, Cormier. I’ve been a model bartender for nearly half an hour, now."

Delphine rolls her eyes, gently hip-checking Cosima. “Do  _not_  let her bully you. You have important classes and things.”

“ _One_ beer ain’t gonna kill her,” Sarah bawls back, scrounging around beneath the bar for a bottle of bourbon. “Christ, Delphine, you’re not her bloody mother.”

"I certainly hope not," Delphine murmurs in an undertone, and sashays away with  _exactly_ that clip to her walk that makes Cosima’s mouth run dry. She rolls her eyes heavenward, her face burning pleasurably. Bad enough the woman insists on a uniform of bra-strap-baring tank tops and ass-hugging jeans. Far worse, when she flirts like she’s been genetically designed for the cause. 

_She can’t sleep with patrons_ , Cosima thinks desperately, closing her hand around the bottle Sarah slid her way.  _She can’t, and she won’t, she’s just friendly_ —

Except  _friendly_  is Sarah Manning’s fist knocking lightly against her shoulder each time she comes in.  _Friendly_  is Sarah slipping her free beer, free fries, free advice on how to  _get your share of pussy, ‘cuz lord knows, you need it. Those_ _glasses? Oi._ The looks Delphine Cormier has been sliding her way these past few weeks go decidedly beyond the realm of friendly, as Cosima has always known it, and…

"Oi." Sarah’s knuckles, rapping hard on the bar beside her book. Cosima jumps. "Study, woman. You tryin’ to get me in trouble with the management?"

"You are the management," Cosima reminds her dimly. Sarah gives her a toothy grin. 

"Fuckin’ right. I’ll pass that right along."

"Please," Delphine drawls, "pass along whatever you like." Her hand is hovering dangerously near the deep fryer. Sarah eyes the popping grease for a moment, and shrugs. 

"Not worth my bleedin’ skin, on second thought. She’s all yours, pumpkin."

Cosima ducks her head, but not so quickly that she misses the blinding smile Delphine is sending her way. Her face feels in danger of splitting down the middle, her mouth drawing up toward her ears. No one makes her grin like Delphine. No one makes her do  _anything_  the way Delphine inspires with the merest glance, or brush of long fingers against Cosima’s skin. Delphine is a wonder. 

And Delphine is  _looking_  at her that way again, sneaking glances from beneath her eyelashes even as she pulls up a batch of onion rings and slips around the bar to make the promised delivery to the forlorn young woman with the unfortunate hair. Cosima watches her move, feeling bold, feeling driven in a way that will absolutely  _not_  earn her an A on tomorrow’s quiz. What-ever, man. Like it matters, with Delphine swinging her hips that way. 

"Ah, just fuckin’  _go_  for it,” Sarah hisses. Cosima jumps, face heating all the way up to her ears. 

"I’m sorry, go for—"

"If you wanna fuck her," Sarah growls, "then  _fuck her._ But quit your goddamn eye-fuckin’ over my bar, you’re gettin’ everything all gross and soggy.”

She’s blushing the color of her jacket now, and the urge to pull her books to her chest and slip out of the Double Helix with what little self-preservation she’s retained is powerful. If only Sarah weren’t giving her that raised-eyebrows expression, flicking both hands in a  _go get ‘em, champ_  gesture. If only this wasn’t a Tuesday night. If only  _fucking her_  didn’t put her favorite bar of all time on the chopping block. 

"Are you harassing her again?" Delphine has her hands on her hips, her apron slung low. She’s glaring at Sarah, though not without amusement. Sarah throws her hands skyward, shrugging. 

"Didn’t say nothin’."

"Did too," Cosima replies. Sarah points a threatening finger in her direction.

"Don’t sass me, rasta-hair, or we’ll have words."

"I’m sure every one of yours will consist of four whole letters," Cosima tells her sweetly. Sarah smirks. 

"Look,  _I’m_  not the one eye-banging my co-owner all over the place. Delphine, you want to take this cheeky piece of ass elsewhere, and have done with it, please? I’m a wee bit busy over here, could use your full bloody attention sometime tonight.”

Delphine slowly rotates in place, until her gaze is fixed solely on Cosima. “What is she talking about?”

"I never know," Cosima swears, trying desperately to look as though her skin isn’t in danger of catching fire on the spot. Delphine arches a skeptical brow, and, without another word, takes Cosima by the wrist. 

Sarah hoots after them, a long wolf-whistle that makes Cosima want to turn and pitch a textbook at her head. Delphine calmly ignores her, pulling Cosima toward the tiny office at the back of the bar—the one Cosima almost always mistakes for the bathroom, and has consequently stumbled into no fewer than a dozen times. 

"Look, I’m really sorry," she begins as soon as the door is shut. Delphine is leaning her weight back against it, chewing her lip contemplatively. "Sarah, y’know her: big ego, bigger mouth. Gonna get us all in trouble someday, ‘cuz—"

"Is she right?"

Cosima blinks. “I’m…sorry?”

There really isn’t much space between them, she registers: the office consists of a half-sized desk, a poster of the Eiffel Tower (she’s reasonably certain it’s Sarah’s idea of a joke), and not much else. Delphine is standing there, weight slumped coolly against the door, and still, Cosima would hardly have to reach at all to close fingers around her waist. Dangerous.

And mildly encouraging. 

"Because, if she is," Delphine goes on, haltingly, as if she’s only just now trying to process this thought chain for the first time. "If she’s right about…the—the eye-fucking, well…"

She goes on biting her lip for a moment, looking at Cosima with such intensity that Cosima nearly backs up against the desk. 

"It was a total accident," she says, flustered. "The eye—I mean, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. Please don’t be mad. This is my favorite place in the world right now, and I can’t really focus back at my apartment, and—"

"I’m not uncomfortable."

"You’re not?"  _Because this office is actually kinda bitty, and Sarah’s kind of a bitch sometimes, and as far as I knew, you’re not remotely gay, so—_  “I mean…really?”

Delphine crosses to her then, clearing the floor in about half a step, and takes her face between her hands. She smells faintly of beer, and grease, and an underlying tinge of mango body wash. 

It’s the first woman Cosima has kissed in months, and she’s a little surprised at how quickly it all rushes back. Before she knows it, her hands are buried in Delphine’s finger-tousled hair, her body pushing forward until Delphine’s back bounds against the door again. Delphine makes a low sound into her mouth, lips parting, tongue seeking, and Cosima grins into her. 

"How—" She angles her head to the left, pleased when Delphine follows her lead. "How long—have you—"

"Weeks," Delphine murmurs. Her hands are bold, skidding up the back of Cosima’s shirt, patterning across her spine in flat strokes. Cosima pumps her hips forward, one experimental thrust that sends Delphine’s head rocking back against the door. "I should have—listened to Sarah—"

"Not a common phrase," Cosima breathes, and bows her head to kiss sweeping stripes down Delphine’s neck. It seems to go on forever, an endless column of soft, accepting skin. Her mark shows up beautifully, a patch of glaring pink amidst all that ivory, and she loves the way Delphine arches into her. 

She loves, even more, the rush of adrenaline when Delphine grasps her by the hips and grinds against her, all animal drive and blushing cheeks. Her hand is fumbling, close-quarters-awkard, at Delphine’s zipper, even as she folds herself around one of Delphine’s flexing thighs and sets a sharp, bucking rhythm against it. She’d prefer to go slow the first time, to test all of her many theories about Delphine Cormier: the idea that Delphine likes it easy-listening style, the idea that Delphine has an extended preference for foreplay, the idea that Delphine tastes like liquid brilliance, distilled specially for long nights working her over, slow and exploratory and languorous. She’d like that very much—but Sarah is already shouting for them to  _hurry it the fuck up, Jesus, we have a show to run here,_ and Delphine is curling a leg around her hip. Her voice comes in a rush of half-articulated syllables, mashed somewhere between languages, when Cosima angles her wrist and tucks her hand between silk and skin. 

Her mouth is everywhere then, coiling and curling, dancing against Cosima’s in flexing gasps. Her tongue flows against Cosima’s, insinuating itself along the line of her teeth, the flushed swell of her lower lip. Her hips rack up, clumsy and fevered, as Cosima sets a quick-rub pace, all fingertips. Her fingers catch in Cosima’s shirt again, tugging hard, and Cosima’s pulse quickens to an unholy pace at the idea that this woman actually wants her  _naked_. 

"Next time," she promises, and isn’t entirely sure if the words are verbalized or slung along the cable lines of mid-sex telepathy. Delphine groans assent, and kisses her so hard, her vision goes dizzy-blank. Her hips buck once, twice, her back arching up off the door, breasts warm and soft as she crashes against Cosima’s chest and sends them both stumbling backward into the desk. 

Her lower back strikes the hard wooden edge, her hand still caught up in Delphine’s jeans, and she’s laughing even as Delphine’s jello-weak arms scramble to right the situation. “ _Jesus_.”

"Oi!" Sarah’s voice, rapping hard against the door in time with her knuckles. "You breakin’ my shit in there, lesbi-friends?"

They’re still laughing, trying to untangle themselves, as the door cracks open. Sarah’s smirk appears in between door and frame, her hand clamped firmly over her eyes. 

"I don’t wanna see," she proclaims, "a goddamn thing. But if you’ve quite finished, we’ve got about thirty frat boys in need of Budweiser. Could you get your panties untwisted and come help me, please?" _  
_

“ _You_  told her to take me back here,” Cosima reminds her, gasping with laughter. Delphine’s face is buried in her neck, her breath coming in the hitching pulls of orgasm-recovery. Her skin prickles pleasantly, the pulse between her legs intensifying. Sarah snorts. 

"And now that that’s done, get your faces back out here.  _Someone’s_ got studying to catch up on, yeah?”

Cosima’s not sure how she’s ever supposed to study again, with Delphine’s scent in her hair, and her mouth, and her brain. Cosima’s not sure how she’s supposed to focus on anything again, watching Delphine button her jeans again, adjust her hair, pin Cosima with a long, luxurious stare. 

"Come over?" she suggests, prying open the door and gesturing Cosima out. "After. After we close. Will you?"

Dry-mouthed, grinning, Cosima nods. This is  _so_  her favorite bar. 

She gets the feeling Delphine’s will also be her favorite couch, bed, and arms, just to round the whole thing out. 

 


	11. One Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt prompt #4: One night stand showing up everywhere after and becoming more.

It’s one night. One night, one girl, one messy tangle of decisions leading to this place, and she thinks,  _Sure—I can do this._ She thinks it the way a person thinks as they study the flow of traffic, toes over the curb, limbs primed for flight.  _Sure—I can do this_ , as she goes charging, pell-mell into an endless stream of cars.  _Sure. Why not?_

It’s one night, and one girl, and sure, she’s never  _considered_  girls before—but this one is cute. More than cute. This one is  _different_ , is a whole new range of motion, a whole fresh approach to little things like breathing, like twisting hands through cool air, like dancing in skipping little jigs. This one is different. It’s not a girl. It’s  _the_  girl.

For one night. 

She takes her home, because it feels like the right thing to do—because the party was too loud, and her hands were too flighty, and the girl smelled of apples and the faint, not wholly unpleasant undertone of laboratory chemicals. She shouldn’t have found that attractive, but a couple of drinks in is a whole different matter. And the girl’s hands felt so wonderful, framing the flex of her thigh as she spoke earnestly about things best left to the unsung geniuses. 

(She was unsung, once. Now there are expectations. Now it’s different, with doctorates on the horizon, with this brave new world stretched out ahead of her. She was unsung once, and sometimes, she thinks she misses that more than she should.)

The girl’s hands felt wonderful, tracing trembling muscle through the denim embrace of her jeans, and her mouth was even better when it pressed—clumsy, but perfectly self-aware—to the corner of her lips. The sort of kiss that can be played off as a simple  _goodbye_ , if it comes to that. The girl was giving her an out, standing there on the front stoop of this house she feels so awkward hanging around, this party that feels more like an explosion than a good time. The girl, hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, which are cuffed high enough to show fluorescent green high tops, and the mismatched socks underneath. The girl, with ink on her wrists and silver glinting from her nose. The girl, with glasses thick enough to reflect back all the anxiety she isn’t letting herself feel. Not tonight. Not with this girl.

The walk is slow. Meandering. Sort of careless, the way walks only are at the start of summer, when alcohol is surging briskly along through your veins, and the girl at your side has her hand tucked neatly into yours. Her fingers threaded through, at some point, until they make one constant. An unbroken circuit. Drunkenly, she smiles at that, and the girl smiles back. The girl’s face is  _made_  for smiling. There is no  _try too hard_  sex appeal here, no push, no pull. Just a girl who smiles because it’s a perfectly okay night, and the hand in hers is perfectly happy to be there, and Delphine takes her home. 

It’s one night. She can forget in the morning, forget the way the girl’s hair tasted when it tangled against her tongue by mistake, forget the way the girl’s hips bucked and her back arched, forget the way she groaned uneasily, laughing with red-hot embarrassment until the girl took gently by the wrist and  _guided, guided, guided_  all the way the to end. She gets the hang of it, eventually. And she can forget. 

After all, the girl is gone in the morning. 

That’s all that matters. 

***

"Head’s up!" 

It’s a blur, shooting by at breakneck speed, and Delphine only manages to stay on her feet by sheer force of will as the skateboard twists by. A flow of color, more hurricane than grace, all reds and purples and dark, dark hair. She watches the young woman with bemusement, clutching her books tight to her chest and thinking that summer vacation on campus is supposed to be  _relaxing_. In a manner of speaking. 

Regardless, the skateboarder is gone in a flash, and Delphine shakes her head. Reds and purples and  _chaos_. This is more than she’d expected, but at least it is only one maniac. She is left in peace to reach her lab, and her experiments go uninterrupted for nearly two whole hours. She’s far too used to storm-ins, to lost freshmen and grumbling upperclassmen who  _totally don’t need this for my major, Jesus_. It’s very pleasant, to simply work in the soft, slightly muggy silence. Very pleasant indeed. 

"Ah—shit, sorry. Sorry. I can come back?"

Her head comes up hard, and her first thought is  _reds and purples_. The skateboard is still there, clamped under the young woman’s arm, and Delphine squints in the dim lighting. A wildly patterned skirt. A pair of Doc Martens, turned down at the tops to reveal the floral lining. A ferocious array of dreadlocks. And a smile.

Her first thought is  _reds and purples_. 

Her second is,  _Oh, merde._

If the girl remembers her from that party two weeks ago, she is giving no sign. She’s only watching Delphine with a calm little grin, the hand not grasping her board gripping the strap of a bookbag. “I mean, hey, it’s a pretty big lab, so…if you’re cool?”

She mimes passing through the doorway, and then tilts back on her heels, waiting. Delphine wordlessly waves her in, hoping her face is only half as red as it feels. She suspects it would not be so wild, to burst into flames right here and now, and hopes fervently against it. Some of these chemicals are flammable. 

It would be terribly embarrassing. 

She keeps her head down for the rest of the hour, and the girl does not try to make conversation. She keeps snapping the cuffs of her blue rubber gloves, pushing her glasses up atop her head as she gazes down into a microscope. Sometimes, she hums, little snatches of 80s synth-pop with which Delphine is unfamiliar. Most of the time, she jots notes on a pad, and disregards Delphine entirely. 

When noon rolls around, Delphine makes her escape. 

It is, she hopes fervently, the last time she will see the nameless girl from that night. 

***

She’s here again. 

Delphine’s teeth are gritted, her muscles jouncing along at the speed of basic, mind-numbing anxiety beneath her clothes. It’s one thing to run into the girl on campus, in the science wing. It’s another entirely to run into her  _in a hardware store._

And yet, here she is. No reds and purples today, no skateboard, no bookbag. Her shorts brush the tops of her knees, and her blouse comes down long enough to qualify as a dress. She is crouched down in the spray-paint aisle, and Delphine can see quite plainly that those kneecaps are scraped and battered. Bent this way, muttering to herself, she looks like an irritable fourth-grader. 

Delphine has just about convinced her traitor muscles—which conveniently seized up at the sight of this girl, with her trademark dreads and  _those glasses_ —to turn tail and run when the girl lifts her head and catches sight of her. She points with the index and pinky fingers of her right hand, a  _rock on_  tilted on its side. Silver glints beneath the washout Home Depot lighting. She’s smiling. 

"Hey. You. I know you."

Delphine cringes, waits for the inevitable—and inevitably crude—result of this recognition:  _Didn’t I fuck you once?_ It never comes. Without straightening up, the girl adds, “Bio lab, Monday? Yeah, you had the hair.”

Delphine blinks at her, and the girl shrugs. 

"I mean, you still have the hair. Obvs. But it was just—first thing I noticed. Or whatever. Did I almost run you down on my board that day?"

Mute, Delphine nods. The girl’s grin tips toward the sheepish. 

"Yikes. Super sorry. I used to be really good, but then I left it home for a year, and—turns out? Not so much like riding a bike. I’m Cosima."

She leans over, still without bothering to stand, and grasps Delphine’s hand where it lies dormant against her side. A firm shake, with no signal whatsoever that she has ever cupped Delphine’s breast or stroked the inner curve of her thigh with that hand. She lets go before Delphine can remember to squeeze back. 

"Anyway, I’m supposed to be picking up supplies for my roommate’s brother. Foster brother. Whatevs, super flamey, love the shit out of him." She hesitates, considering the palette of choices before her. "If you were a vibrantly-sassy gay man…what do you think? Apple-orchard green, or elf-emerald?"

She holds up two utterly similar cans of paint and gives them a gentle shake. Delphine blankly points at one without really looking at it, and she grins. 

"Cool. Works for me. I’ll just tell him the cute chick with the killer hair picked it out, if he argues the point."

She pushes herself up and out of the aisle without another word, and Delphine finds herself gaping at the paint display, wondering if this is going to be her entire summer. 

***

As it turns out—it’s at least going to be her entire month. 

"Hey! It’s the cool hair girl!"

That this girl would actually be working in the Cold Stone around the corner does not particularly shock Delphine. It probably should. All of this should probably be considerably more shocking, since the very definition of a one-night stand is one you never have to meet up with again. At least, that’s been her definition. At least, up until now. 

_The first girl you sleep with_ , she thinks wryly, staring at Cosima in her jauntily-tilted little hat,  _and she turns out to be the last human being in this town for the summer._

"Yes, I’m—" She shakes her head. At least the girl appears not to remember their initial run-in. She is only  _cool hair girl_ , decider of optimum shades of green, silently distant lab partner. It’s better than being  _drunken single-serving fuck buddy_. Acceptable, at least. “I just thought I’d get some…”

Cosima is already holding up her scoop, gesturing emphatically at the array of flavors before her. “Cone?”

Delphine nods, feeling awkward as she does her very best not to remember how this girl looked with her jeans kicked off and the muscles of her stomach strung tight. “Vanilla, please.”

"Just vanilla?" An eyebrow raises, the scoop fluttering dangerously near Cosima’s own head. "Bo-ring."

"I like vanilla," Delphine tells her, unable to prevent a smile from creeping across her lips. Cosima tsks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and Delphine is suddenly doing her best to  _not_ remember how pliant and excitable that tongue had been, dancing across the threshold of her lower lip. 

“ _Fine_. At least have sprinkles. Tell me you’re a sprinkle girl.”

"I prefer gummies," Delphine says, loftily, and Cosima’s face brightens all the way to the tips of her ears. 

"Gummies are cool by me, lady."

She strips a dollar off the bill for no good reason, and Delphine finds herself sticking around to eat most of the cone. Cosima leans against the counter, pointing at each flavor in turn and detailing, in a low, conspiratorial voice, the strangest customer who has ordered each. 

(Delphine’s favorite is the sordid tale of the man who orders Cake Batter every third Sunday, always bearing a parakeet on his right shoulder, and speaking only in pig latin. She likes the way Cosima scrunches up her nose as she speaks, and likes even more how her fingers feel as she reaches across and pats Delphine’s shoulder. 

"Here. A bird, man. Can you imagine just walking around with a damn  _bird_  on your shoulder?”)

***

"Fancy meeting you here."

She raises her head from the cup of her palm, instinctively placing a finger between the pages of her textbook. Cosima is leaning against the armchair opposite her in the library, curling her ankle around the chair leg and gazing at her with sharp, delighted focus. 

"Y’know," she says, tossing herself into the chair and folding herself into an awkward cross-legged position, "it’s the weirdest thing."

"Parakeets?" Delphine asks, glibly. Cosima pokes her tongue out. 

"Seems like every damn time I leave my apartment, I run into you. Been happening all month. You notice that?"

Carefully, Delphine shakes her head. “No.”

"Liar," Cosima announces, and tosses her hair back. Her fingers are twining around one another in her lap—less like she’s anxious, Delphine observes, and more as if she has no real sense she’s moving at all. "C’mon, you don’t find it weird?"

"It is summer," Delphine replies. "Most people have made the great escape."

"Most people are smart," Cosima agrees. "And yet, here we are. I’d give any man a run for his GPA, and you spend more time in that lab than your own living room, I’d bet. Must make us the stupidest smart folk around for miles."

"Possibly the only folk around for miles," Delphine says, smiling. Cosima reaches her arms above her head, binding her fingers together and stretching until her spine pops audibly. Delphine keeps her eyes studiously planted just over Cosima’s shoulder, purposely noticing neither the elegant way her shirt slides up to her navel, nor the pulsing memory of kisses burned into that very skin. 

"I think it’s a sign, man," Cosima sighs. Snapping her attention back, Delphine frowns. 

"Sign?"

"Yeah. C’mere." She’s beckoning like a small child with a secret. Delphine bends forward, nearly sliding out of her chair. 

"Yes?"

"I think," Cosima says, pitching her voice to the appropriate volume for a library, "it’s a sign…that we need to…"

_Talk about what happened between us._ Delphine cringes. 

"…find us a  _park_.”

"A park," Delphine repeats, bewildered. "Why ever would we—"

"Because," Cosima groans, as if she’s some silly student unable to grasp the simplest scientific principle. "it’s a gorgeous friggin’ day out, and  _you’re_  cooped up in here with  _genetics_. Not that genetics aren’t mad interesting, don’t get it twisted, but you can study that any old day.”

"And not today, because…?"

"Because it’s  _beautiful_ ,” Cosima repeats. “Come out with me. We’ll find a nice patch of grass, watch some dogs run wild, maybe catch a snooze? Tell me that doesn’t sound appealing.”

She’s grinning the way she had that night, with that  _exact_  expression in her eyes: one too hopeful to be manipulative, and too brilliant to be fooled. Delphine rubs at her forehead, grinning despite herself. 

"Can I bring my book?"

"Can you—" Cosima huffs. "I am offering you the finery of my  _company_ , and you want a book?” When Delphine only smiles, she sighs. “ _Fine_. Christ, you try to show a lady a good time…”

She brings the book. It serves as a very useful pillow, as Cosima’s shoulder socks in against her arm, one hand drifting and bobbing as she points out an endless display of cloud animals. 

***

"Delphine?" 

"Hm?"

They’re stretched out in Cosima’s apartment, sharing the battered leather couch she appears to have dragged in off the street one afternoon (she asks about it much later, and Cosima assures her that,  _yes, that is exactly what I did; problem?_ ). Cosima’s legs are stretched across her lap, her laptop bouncing against her straight-slung kneecaps as she rap-taps away at the keys. Delphine, pen in her mouth, is glaring at a sheaf of equations that are  _this close_  to making sense. 

"We’re just never going to talk about it, are we?"

"Talk about what?" Delphine asks, absent and muddled around the ballpoint. Her hair keeps drifting lazily into her face, slipping out of the bun meant to protect it from the unholy humidity. She pushes it back for the thousandth time, as Cosima shifts her legs for comfort. 

"About…y’know. I mean, I guess you know. You…do remember, right?"

Her stomach flips slowly over on itself. She raises her eyes to find Cosima staring anxiously at her over the laptop, mouth twitching. 

"Look, it’s cool if you want to forget it ever happened. I just…if you  _did_ want to talk about it? I mean, I figured I’d wait ‘til you brought it up, and you just never did, and we’re kinda…I mean, we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

"Yes." Delphine is dry-mouthed, her left leg beginning to power up and down against thin carpet in a fit of anxiety. Cosima reaches over, awkwardly far, and touches her knee. 

"Don’t, like, freak out. I don’t want to make it weird, I just wanna make sure we…talk about it, if you want to. And, if you don’t," she adds hurriedly, "that’s cool, too. I’m good with friends. I just don’t want us to be the weird friends who banged once, and then never…you know?"

Delphine nods slowly, struggling to maintain her composure. Cosima bites her lip. 

"I made it weird, huh?"

_It was weird when I slept with you_ , Delphine thinks, and closes her eyes.  _It was weird, because it was one night. It was weird, period._

"I was never supposed to see you again," she says. Cosima is silent, waiting her out. She sighs. "I really liked you that night."

"I liked you, too," Cosima says, agreeably, and falls silent again. Delphine’s lips quirk. 

"I didn’t mean to. Like you. You—you are a woman. I’ve never…"  _You could tell_ , she adds silently, feeling a hot flush creep up her cheeks. “And then you did not mention it, and I thought you had perhaps…”

"Forgotten?" Cosima suggests. She nods, feeling stupid and nervous. Trying, as always, to forget the way Cosima’s eyes had brightened at the first stroke of her fingers. Trying, as always, to forget Cosima’s smile smeared across her own lips. 

"This has been a very strange summer," she sighs. Cosima squeezes her knee again.

"I didn’t forget," she says quietly. "I don’t—I left that day because I figured that’s what you wanted me to do. And then I just kept running into you, and you just kept not recognizing me, and…did you  _want_  me to mention it?”

Delphine shrugs, awkward and heavy. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

"Because I wanted to." There’s an unexpected ferocity behind the words, and something like a laugh, too. Delphine meets her gaze again. "I did. Believe me. You know you’re the most beautiful person I ever—but then there were gummies, and stories, and cloud-watching, and it all kind of…settled. Do you feel settled?"

It’s an odd question. Still, she’s nodding before she has entirely processed it. Cosima is smiling with half her mouth now, her eyes distant. 

"I still really like you," she says, more quietly than ever. "Which totally makes it weird again, I’m sure."

Except it doesn’t, somehow. Delphine doesn’t quite trust her tongue. She simply fumbles a hand across Cosima’s shin, clamping down on smooth, warm skin. Cosima inhales shakily. 

"It’s cool," she says again, "if you don’t want to. But I…you’re pretty awesome, I think. And I’m not sorry. That it happened. Are you?"

Delphine, still not trusting herself, shakes her head slowly. Squeezes Cosima’s shin a little harder. Gazes at her. 

"I’d like to kiss you," Cosima confesses, sounding very young all of a sudden. "If you—if it wouldn’t skeeve you out."

"It would not…skeeve," Delphine assures her, the words coming out as a croak. And it doesn’t—not when Cosima thunks her laptop down on the coffee table, or when Cosima scoots closer on the weathered old couch, or when Cosima’s hand fashions itself neatly against her jawline. It doesn’t skeeve in the least. Her heart thuds. 

It was supposed to be one night. 

This has been a  _very_  strange summer. 


	12. Catching Cabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Oh my goodness could you pretty please do the “gets in cab but someone else is already in it” AU for Cophine? Because I feel like Cosima would totally do that.

_Why_ , she wonders, waving her arms above her head,  _is it always raining when I need a cab?_  It seems a natural fact of life: no hurry, no place to be, perfectly pleasant day? Cabs everywhere. Cabs stretching bumper to bumper for  _miles_. They’re practically  _giving_  cabs away on those gorgeous May days where the sun beats down with unerring tenacity. 

And on days like this, with the sky falling in on her head—nothing. 

Ten minutes go by before she even spots one, and when she does, it neatly skids past without even bothering to pause. A spray of icy mud-water spurts up from beneath its tires. Cosima wrenches to the side, and still takes the brunt of the sheet, doused from shoulder to squelching sneaker. She hangs her head, lip between her teeth, and thinks,  _This is fucking incredible._

Another flash of yellow, and this time, she  _sprints_  for it. If it isn’t going to stop for her, she’ll clamber right up top and hang on for dear life. She’s going to catch her friggin’  _death_  out here, just standing around like a dumbass. 

Her hands clamp down on the handle and wrench the door open, a full-bodied jerk that nearly sends her sprawling backward. She’s all the way inside, door clapping shut behind her, before she realizes the driver  _was_ stopping at the curb after all. Also, she’s panting. Also, she probably looks insane. 

"Hi. Hey. Sorry."

The woman behind the wheel tilts an eyebrow at her in the mirror. “S’cool. But—” Her gaze slips to the left, to the other half of the backseat, and suddenly, it occurs to Cosima that she may have just commandeered a cab already in use. 

The woman beside her is unbearably lovely, blonde hair spilling down her face, her lips quirked in a slightly anxious smile. Cosima stares at her for a minute, then turns back for the door. 

"Shit, shit, I am—I didn’t realize this was occupied, I—"

There’s a hand on her knee, she registers—not invasive so much as gently accepting. “You can stay,” the woman says. “I do not mind sharing.”

Her voice is unexpectedly throaty, the syllables all slanting together as if she has recently woken from a deep sleep. Cosima looks up, meets her eyes, grins self-consciously. 

"It’s been a crappy night," she says. The woman gives her a slow once-over, taking in the mud-stained clothes still dripping all over the scarred leather seat. 

"So I see."

"No, it’s just that my presentation kind of went to shit, and then my professor was all yappy about it, and  _then_  I forgot my badge back in my room, so I couldn’t get into the lab after hours, and it just—it was a crap day,” she repeats, lamely, and wonders why she’s even bothering. The woman’s hand flexes on her knee in sympathy before withdrawing back to her lap. 

"I’m sorry."

"Real sad story," the driver chimes in dryly. "You gonna give me a destination, or are we just gonna drive in circles all night?"

Cosima blusters out her apartment address, and the woman with the raccoon-smudged eyeliner shrugs and shoves the cab back out into traffic. Cosima falls back against the seat, blowing out a long breath. She wants sleep. She wants sleep, and then to maybe eat her weight in french fries, because seriously? This has been a  _day_.

"You are a student, then?" The woman beside her is still watching her with kind, curious eyes. Cosima smiles wanly. 

"Yeah, bio program. You?"

"My student days are behind me," the woman says, laughing. Cosima takes less than three seconds to decide she seriously digs that laugh. 

"Never too old to learn," she says, somewhat cheekily, and then registers how that must have sounded. "Shit. Not that you’re old. You look—I mean, you look really great, for—oh, holy Christ, forget it."

The woman’s eyes twinkle at her. In the rearview, she sees the driver snort. 

"I continue learning, of course. This is the definition of a scientist, yes?"

Cosima sits up straighter, turning her body so far toward the woman, the seatbelt threatens to snap tight across her chest. “You’re a scientist? Wicked! What’s your field?”

"Immunology," the woman says smoothly, and slides a hand across to clasp Cosima’s. "Delphine Cormier."

"Cosima. That’s so hardcore. Where’d you study?"

It’s amazing, how quickly a person can forget all the shitty aspects of their day when faced with a beautiful woman willing to discuss her work. Cosima sits, enthralled, listening to Dr. Delphine Cormier speak, and thinks,  _This is what I want. This is where I want to be in a couple of years._ Poised, confident, drop-dead gorgeous. This woman is the whole goddamn package, and she’s landed herself right in Cosima’s cab.

(Well. Vice versa, but who’s keeping up?)

"It’s fascinating," she’s saying, leaning into Delphine’s space and twisting her hands excitedly, "how genetics can map a path for daily life, y’know? There’s whole nature/nurture question, and how far underground  _that_  goes, and I just—really need to understand it all. Does that sound crazy?”

"You both sound batty as shithouse rats," the driver drawls. "And this is your stop. ‘Less you’d like me to do another lap?"

Her face flushes. Delphine looks up, mouth working as though she is about to say something, and the driver twists around. 

"As for you—your meter went way beyond Jackson, hope you know. You want me to loop you back around?"

Cosima raises her eyebrows. “Jackson? You picked me up at Jackson.”

"Clever," the driver remarks. Delphine is staring at her hands, her face bright pink. "Well?"

"You rode all the way  _past_  your stop?” Cosima asks wonderingly. Delphine glances up, smiling sheepishly. “Dude, that’s—you know it’s raining?”

"It has slowed," Delphine replies. The driver rolls her eyes. 

"Oi. Charm each other’s panties off  _elsewhere_ , yeah? My shift doesn’t last all bloody night.”

"I will get out here," Delphine says quickly, peeling off several bills from her wallet and thrusting them into the driver’s hand. Cosima fumbles to do the same, still staring with wide eyes as they pile out onto the curb. 

"Why would you do that?"

"Honestly?" Hands in the pockets of her coat, Delphine looks slightly shy, but not particularly ashamed. "I was concerned."

"Concerned," Cosima repeats. Delphine shrugs. It’s an oddly lumpy sort of gesture for such a tall, graceful woman, and it grounds her in the strangest way. Suddenly, Cosima wants to reach for her, tuck an arm around her waist. 

"You looked terribly upset. And wet. You looked very wet."

"Not wrong there," she quips. Delphine smiles. 

"And, I don’t know if you noticed, but the driver was…"

"Not the sunniest," Cosima confirms. 

"I thought I would stick around for a stop or two. Just to make certain there was no trouble. You see?"

"A stop or two," Cosima says, a bit slyly, "would have been twenty minutes ago."

Another shrug. Her cheeks are a vibrant pink beneath the rainwater-speckled glow of the streetlights. Cosima reaches out, tucks a hand through the crook of her elbow, and bumps her lightly with her hip. 

"C’mon."

"Where are we—"

"I think," Cosima says, "fries are in order. You’re French, right? You like fries?"

"Fries," Delphine repeats, a bit bewildered. Cosima gestures down the street, flapping a hand in the general direction of the all-night diner she crashes in when her brain stops firing midway through a paper. 

"Hot and salty. Can’t be beat. Come on, I’m buying."

The woman, this scientist who intentionally shelled out an extra twenty-minutes’ worth of cash to keep her company, smiles more broadly. She is, Cosima thinks again, amazingly beautiful. And kind. 

The sky is still falling on her head, and her day was still a total trainwreck—but sometimes, karma has a way of balancing itself out a little. 


	13. I Know That I Can Fight, Or (I Can Let The Lion In)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combo prompt between Britt’s 'assassin sent to kill, but falls in love with the mark' and Kay’s 'Cosima and Delphine, “Her heart keeps spilling over without her consent,” spy vs spy AU'.

A target is a target. It’s the first thing they teach you, the first lesson hammered home: a target is a target. A mark is a mark. You take the card, with the name, and the address, and you  _do_  the thing. That’s it. That’s the name of the game. 

And if the  _name of the game_  happens to be  _the former best in the business_ , that’s fine enough. It’s just a job. Just a mark. 

One tiny problem:

She seems to have forgotten how to pull the trigger. 

It was easy, to get close. Easy, because the woman  _knew_  what she was doing—had to have. She was too good, once upon a time, to have lost her touch so sorely. You leave the ballpark, but you never  _really_  leave the game; she knew all along. It was impossible to miss. The way her face would tighten just a fraction of an inch when things like  _so, what do you do?_ came up. The way her fingers would clench, ever so subtly, at the offhand response:  _oh, just science._ She never bought it, not even for an instant. She would have been an idiot to buy any of this. 

If there is one thing Cosima Niehaus has never been, it is an idiot, and Delphine Cormier respects her for that. Respects her body of work. Respects a longstanding history of surprise embolisms delivered, like a whisper in the night. Respects a longstanding history of  _doing what needs_ _doing_ , no questions asked. 

But then there  _were_  questions, were’t there? Because she left. Left the ballpark, but never the game. She left the ballpark, and went skidding into the opposition—Manning’s team. Manning’s ever-present, ever scraggly band of rebels who come in and actually try to clean up their messes before they are made. The DYAD doesn’t stand for that.  _Delphine_  doesn’t stand for that. Suddenly, Cosima Niehaus was no longer someone to look up to, a career to track. Cosima Niehaus was only a name on a card. A name. An address.

 _She’ll never see you coming_ , Director Leekie had said, rather pleasantly.  _You’re new. She never had time to pluck you from the system. You’re perfect._

And she was: perfectly poised to slip in and make introductions at a bar one night, perfectly poised to accept a coffee invitation, perfectly poised to slide neatly beneath Cosima’s skin. She could have taken her that first night. Should have, maybe. But Leekie had been adamant:  _this one will take time. She’s good. One of the best, even. When she goes down, it won’t be easy. But she’ll go with a bang._

So she waited. Took her time. Let Cosima see her, in bits and pieces, little nips behind the curtain. Noticed all the things Cosima was trying to play off as nothing. How she never allowed herself alcohol in Delphine’s presence. How she never let Delphine take her purse. How she always walked tall in even the ricketiest shoes, assuring them both that she  _could run_ ,  _would run_ , if it came to that. She noticed all of this.

She also noticed other things. Like how Cosima smiles with her whole mouth, and how that smile actually reaches her eyes, most days. Delphine’s never met a cleaner with a capacity for genuine joy, but Cosima seems to have retained it. That’s impressive. It’s one of her favorite things about Cosima.

She  _has_  favorite things about Cosima. 

This is a problem. 

Her finger has been on the trigger for two weeks now, squeezing, and alleviating pressure before the shot can go off. Her finger has been there, but her heart has been…

Her heart has been developing its own warpath, and she seems quite unable to rein it back in again.

This is also a problem.

The biggest.

Leekie keeps asking for progress, and she gives it willingly:  _She let me in tonight, Aldous. I know where she lives, because she gave that to me. Soon. Her guard is going down, so…soon. Yes._ She gives him progress, because progress is facts, progress is figures.

This has gone well beyond progress. He must never know that. Not if she expects to get out of this alive.

Because Cosima  _has_  let her in. Into the apartment, all clutter, all warm colors and gently prescribed chaos. She let her in, and gave her the grand tour, walking backwards and gesticulating at every bookshelf, every cookie jar, every classic sci-fi film poster. She let her in, and said nothing when Delphine tilted her head back and inspected the ceiling tiles in the kitchen, when Delphine bent and studied the locks on every door, when Delphine strode to the windows and peered out. Delphine told herself she was being  _thorough,_ and knew Cosima saw it for what it was. Looking for the cracks in the foundation. Seeking the danger points.

 _She_  was supposed to be the danger point. Clean and simple. Headshot, if she could take it, and poison, if she couldn’t. Clean. Simple. Just a mark.

Cosima let her in. Let her inspect everything from the record collection to the potted plants. Showed her the contents of her fridge. Poured her a drink. Tea, for both of them; they’ve given up on pushing anything that might drain the senses of their keen strength. They know what this is, both of them. It’s only a matter of time before action takes over from here. 

Cosima let her in. Sat her down on the couch, and spoke at length about silly things. The weather. Television. And not so silly things, things that barely shadowed her heart. Science. Fear. Regret. She’d looked Delphine dead in the eye, and Delphine hadn’t wavered, not even for a second. Two weeks gone. Two weeks is a long time to study a mark. 

She’d kissed her, and Cosima had let her. More than that, she had  _welcomed_  her. Her hands were eager. Her hands have always been the most eager part of Cosima, all flutter and trace, all clutch and grab. Her hands had found Delphine’s hair, the slope of her neck, the panning length of her spine. Her hands, dipping beneath the hem of her blouse. Taking it down, button for button. Sliding it back, so it fell loosely from her shoulders, caught only by the bends of her elbows. Cosima had exposed her then, and it had been  _Delphine_ , letting her. 

You never let the tables turn. Rule number two. You are  _always_ , always on top. But Cosima had been on top that night, and Delphine had let it happen. She had let Cosima slide onto her lap, straddling her with vulpine grace. She had let Cosima’s hands work their magic, as she sighed into lengthy, timeless kisses. Had let Cosima’s hands drift and dance, doing as they pleased, and only leaned up into her. It was a terrible mistake, she knew, even as she cupped Cosima’s cheeks in her hands, tested the weight of her, studying the arch and angle of cheekbones, brows, the curve of her nose. It was a terrible mistake. You learn your mark; you do not let your mark learn  _you_. 

But Cosima knew her, hips rising against a gently rocking pelvis. Cosima knew her, reaching between them to work loose the button on her jeans. Cosima knew her, forehead hot against her own, breath coming in hitching, excited pants against her parted lips. Cosima’s hand slid between denim and cotton, and then, with a practiced twist, between cotton and skin. And Cosima knew her. Learned her. Educated herself, as only someone of Cosima’s caliber can. 

She was in trouble long before that moment, Delphine knows. She was in trouble  _long_  before Cosima stroked slick skin and made her whimper, made her buck, made her grasp gently rolling hips in shaking hands. She was in trouble  _long_  before Cosima shifted, working her onto her back, easing her hand free just long enough to slip the jeans down her legs. Long before. Perhaps from the very beginning, from the first professional grasp of palm slicking across palm. 

She was in trouble then, and the trouble only grew, and now it is Cosima’s mouth branding across her breasts, her stomach, down the curve of her thighs. Now it is Cosima, dangling half off the couch, pulling her knees up into an accepting bend. Now it is Cosima, looking at her with lidded certainty from between her legs, and Delphine thinks this goes well beyond turning tables. Sex with a mark is one thing. Sex with a mark is sometimes the whole plan. This is not the same. 

Cosima’s mouth comes down on her in gentle, almost tender passes, and her eyes follow Delphine’s. As her tongue traces sigils onto her skin, as her tongue drifts and dodges in quick, even strokes, her eyes follow Delphine’s. As her hands root at Delphine’s twitching thighs, holding her steady, holding her still, her eyes follow Delphine’s. Delphine lets her. Delphine, arching into her, bowing to her every motion, riding her mouth the way she has ridden this whole mess, lets her. Delphine, hands curled around tight dreads, palm curved to match the back of her skull, lets her. It’s over now, she thinks, with the first near-delicate plunge of Cosima’s tongue. It’s over now. She is rightly and royally screwed. 

Has Cosima done this on purpose? She knew all along. She must have. She’s out of the ballpark, but not the game. She knew, and still, she opened the gates for this lion to stride right in. Has Cosima done this on purpose, knowing what Delphine came here to do?

She shuts her eyes, setting a shiftless, spastic rhythm as Cosima slides into her, and out again. Tongue first, then fingers, and she thinks,  _Fucked. So fucked. She is a mark, and she is…she is…_

She can’t steady the thought in her head. She is crying out, all low groan and the easy twirl of Cosima’s name, and her mouth is dry, and she is sliding, sweat-soaked and trembling, along the leather of the couch, and this is  _wrong_. This was not the plan. This will end her, one way or the other. 

 _She’ll never see you coming_ , he had said.  _You’re perfect._ It’s a sentiment Cosima is echoing now, her fingers twisting, her cheek hot against Delphine’s thigh. “You’re perfect,” she whispers, and it is so  _honest_  that Delphine’s throat clicks around the next moan. “You’re perfect,” as her fingers fill Delphine, as her voice fills Delphine, as this  _mistake_  fills Delphine. “You’re perfect.”

A mark is a mark. A target is a target. They are the same, in the end, a constant string of choices made and consequences served. Cosima made her choice. The consequence was clear. 

She lies awake in Cosima’s bed that night, her arm loose around Cosima’s curved frame, tracing the faded dimpled scars along her back. She lies away, and listens to her traitor heart thunder. She was the lion. She was the end. 

There will be another, when she fails to return Leekie’s messages. There will be another. The best, probably. The very best DYAD has to offer. There is  _always_  another. Consequences, after all.

A target is a target.

She lies awake, and imagines the bright red of fresh paint, inking itself deep into her back. 


	14. Apartment Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt prompt: Apartment neighbors where they can hear pretty much everything that happens.

It is her firmest belief that one should always christen a new apartment by falling down a flight of stairs. Loudly. And preferably backwards. 

Thankfully she is only on the second floor when she goes, and  _thankfully_ , she is only carrying a box full of towels. Heavy towels, admittedly. As she discovers when she lands in a heap on her back, the box landing squarely on her chest. She jerks into its momentum, curling at the waist as the wind swiftly vacates her lungs, and thinks,  _Yup. Doin’ this right._

If this had been college, a clattering of many feet would have greeted her ears—half of them clamoring to help her up, the other half simply invested in a powerful case of schadenfreude—but this is the real world, and no one comes. She simply remains there on her back for several minutes, quietly sucking in air and thanking every being in the pantheon for not choosing an apartment on the fifth level. Perspective, or whatever. Sort of important. 

She hears a key turn in the main door’s lock, and twists at the shoulders. Hopefully, it will be a big dumb dude, perfectly willing to bring in a couch for her. He’ll think she’s an idiot for sprawling out on a probably-gross public floor, but she doesn’t need him to think she’s  _awesome_. Just hot enough to do menial labor for, and then, y’know. Vanish off the face of the earth. 

The door swings open, and a pair of surprised eyes drop to meet hers. Not a dude. Not even  _kinda_ dude-like. 

She’s scrambling to her feet before the woman can reach down to help, her face a beacon of embarrassment. “Uh.”

"Hello," the woman says, looking as though she is trying very hard not to smile. Cosima rubs the back of her head awkwardly. 

"Well, you know what they say. If at first you fall on your ass, be sure to make a stellar impression while you’re at it."

"Do they say that?" the woman wonders, crinkling her nose. Cosima winces. 

"They do in my head. Where it’s…very loud, and sort of a huge mess. Hi! I’m Cosima. Just moved in."

"Oh?" The woman gives her a slow once-over, and the amazing thing is, Cosima does not feel judged by the slide of her gaze. Slightly warm under its intensity, sure. But not judged. Which is kind of nice, given the massive bruise she can feel swelling along her tailbone. 

"Ye-ah. And now I’m gonna go slink…back to it. Later!"

She’s just trying to figure out how to hold the heavy-ass box of towels in one hand and coax her key into her front door when a gentle hand brushes her between the shoulder blades. She twists around, frowning. The woman is holding a dishtowel out to her, looking for all the world like a puppy with a tennis ball.

"Would you like help?"

***

The woman’s name is Delphine, and what she lacks in absurd upper body strength, she makes up for with sheer determination. And  _great_  hair. And a really excellent sixth sense for when Cosima has holed up in her office for a day and a half, and could seriously use some pizza.

She waves Delphine in, barefoot and still clad in yesterday’s tank top and PJ pants. “You’re a life saver, you know that?”

"Cherry or lemon?" Delphine quips, setting the steaming box on the stovetop and shrugging out of her coat. "Judging from the concert, I am going to hazard a guess: you haven’t slept?"

"Concert?" Cosima repeats. Her palm bonks off the plane of her forehead, the color draining from her face. "Oh,  _shit_. You could hear my music?”

"We share a wall, Cosima," Delphine says dryly. And then, when Cosima opens her mouth to apologize about sixty billion more times, she adds, "It’s all right. I didn’t have a shift today."

"You still need to  _sleep_ ,” Cosima groans. “God, I’m sorry. Next time, like, bang on the wall or something, I dunno. Or text me. I gave you my number, right?”

She honestly can’t remember if this is true or not; the past three weeks have been a jumble of locating furniture, losing important boxes, and settling in at her new gig at the nearby university lab. The hot doctor next door does take precedence over most things—but maybe not  _all_  things. 

Delphine, however, is sliding a phone from her pocket and waving it gently. “Yes, you gave me your number. And I’m going to start using it at my leisure, if you don’t take care of yourself. It’s a requirement when they hand over your doctorate: they deliberately request you not let your neighbors die of exhaustion. Or malnourishment. Eat.”

Cosima does, pretty agreeably. After all, there’s no arguing with a hot doctor. 

(And, anyway, she’s a little afraid Delphine will make good on that  _at my leisure_  thing. Which wouldn’t be bad, per se. Just super, super weird. She prefers her actual doctors to be old, balding, and spectacularly  _not_  hot, thanks.) _  
_

***

"Hey! Delphine! Hey, Delphine!"

Normally, she wouldn’t go around shouting in the apartment lobby, but she’s had this package for three days, and it’s starting to freak her out. When Delphine suggested they keep an eye out for one another’s mail, to prevent long and tedious trips to the post office for pickup (what kind of apartment complex refuses to collect their residents’ packages? A  _shit_  one, clearly), she had agreed pretty readily. But Delphine is, like,  _busy_. All the time. And, again, three days. Long time to hold somebody’s mail hostage.

She squeals her sneakers on the tile and catches Delphine by the coat sleeve. “Sorry,” she pants. “Just. Package. For you. At my place.”

Delphine’s face scrunches in confusion, and, abruptly, clears. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

"Yeah, no, I just—didn’t want to, like, keep sitting on it until Christmas, or whatever." She shrugs. "If it was important medicine or whatever."

Delphine bursts into giggles. “Medicine?”

"Well, you’re a doctor, and—"

"I don’t get  _medicine_  shipped to my apartment, Cosima.” She says it with perfect fondness, accentuating every syllable of the name— _Co-si-ma_ —and Cosima finds herself grinning stupidly back. 

"Right. Duh. Obviously. So…it’s…lab equipment?"

"I think," Delphine says, with utter gravity, "it is very probably my box set of  _West Wing_  DVDs.”

Cosima lifts an eyebrow. “…so, that’s your way of inviting me to a mainlining marathon, then?”

***

"Do you always do your laundry at three AM?"

She’s knuckling the sleep out of one eye, bumping the laundry room door shut with her hip, and the combination is almost too much to keep her towering pile of dirty clothing in hand. Delphine shoots her a tired, gentle smile over her shoulder, winding socks and tank tops into one of the machines piece by piece. 

"I only just got home. Long shift. What’s your excuse?"

Cosima scuffs to the second washer, and unceremoniously tips her basket over. Clothes scatter, most of them falling into the machine pretty successfully, and she bends to collect the wayward underwear before it can spend too much time on the grimy tile floor. 

"Taking a break from the hottest of hot messes," she sighs, when Delphine leans her weight against the washer and waits. "Swear to god, this thing I’m working on? Biggest pain in my ass. I would rather watch sea monkeys. I would rather watch  _grass_  growing.”

"I imagine that experiment would be less than inspirational," Delphine says, sounding pretty cheerful for a woman just getting off a twenty-something-hour shift. Cosima gestures to the table set along the far wall. 

"I was just gonna hang out down here and read. Wanna join?"

They pass the first hour talking about Delphine’s day, and Cosima decides she’s better off not going into the medical field. “Too many needles,” she informs Delphine. “And too much damn blood.”

"A scientist afraid of blood?" Delphine teases, nudging her with one shoulder. Cosima knocks back, letting her feet dangle over the table edge in slow kicking motions. 

"Afraid’s sort of a strong descriptor, don’t you think? I just prefer, y’know. Not washing the stains out of my stuff."

"It’s worth it," Delphine says, quietly. "When it all goes right. I don’t…" She hesitates, and leans her weight lightly against Cosima’s side. "I don’t love it, not yet. But I think I will."

By the time the dryers are pinging, she is fast asleep against Cosima’s shoulder, her head warm and heavy. Cosima flips another page in her book, and thinks laundry is a whole lot less annoying, with a hot doctor around to share in the fun. 

***

The fire is small, and not terribly damaging, but the apartment is evacuated as a singular entity until everything has been cleared away. Cosima stands irritably on the sidewalk, half-thinking she’d be better off catching the bus to the lab until it all dies down. 

"What," Delphine asks, her voice faint, "is this?"

Cosima swivels to meet her, hands instinctively reaching to soothe. “Your place is cool, no worries. It’s just that drunk dude upstairs, you know? Mike or Mark or some shit. Got a little hotsy-totsy with a panini press, is all.”

Delphine stares at her. Her hair is a jumble of curls today, her face weary. She is holding a duffel bag loosely in one hand—a sure sign she has not been home in almost a full day. Cosima reaches out, takes the bag from her, slings it over her own shoulder. 

"C’mon, we have some time to kill. I’m feeling a Mickey D’s run. You in?"

They split a twenty-piece, Cosima walking each nugget across the table and performing ridiculously bad accents before she eats a single one. Delphine, pale and exhausted, slumps against the booth and laughs until tears stream down her cheeks. 

"That," she gasps, "is not French! That is a  _terrible_  French accent!”

"Hon hon," Cosima replies, and they explode into peals of such shrill laughter, the worker with the mop actually comes over to ask them to shut up a little. 

By the time they make it back to the complex, there is no sign of fire, and Delphine leans against her front door, a silly smile on her lips. 

"Thank you," she says, and before Cosima can say anything in return, vanishes inside. Cosima shakes her head, and thinks the whole place still smells  _kinda_  like burnt toast. Whatever. Totally worth it.

***

Sometimes, she hears voices through the wall. Usually, the voices are male, and usually, she  _thinks_ they are coming through the juncture where her living room kisses Delphine’s. She  _thinks_ that is probably okay, when she thinks about it at all.

She tries not to.

Mostly, when the voices come floating through their joined air vent, she turns on the shower, cranks the heat, and sits under the spray for hours at a time.

Not like she’s paying for water in this place, anyway.

***

"Cosima!"

She rolls over, grunting, and fumbles for her glasses. Delphine’s voice, coming through the wall. Delphine’s voice, accompanied by a series of thumps, as if she is slamming the meat of her hand repeatedly against the wall. 

"Cosima, are you there?"

"Yes," she grumbles, not entirely caring if Delphine can hear. Right on cue, the phone on her bedside table jangles the Weird Science theme. Text.

_Come over._

She goes, stumbling over a pile of books and a hoodie, which she swipes up at the last minute and pulls on over the bra and underwear she’s been sleeping in. Delphine’s door is unlocked, and she shambles inside, thinking she can at least pass out on the couch when she’s done…doing whatever this is.

Delphine is waiting for her in the bedroom doorway, her hands clamped around a…

Cosima squints. ”Why,” she asks groggily, “are you holding a vacuum hose attachment?”

Delphine looks painfully embarrassed. “I was trying to suck it up,” she replies. Cosima blinks, taking in the over-long t-shirt, the bare legs, the expression of utter mortification. 

"Suck… _what_  up, sorry?”

Delphine motions her closer, and, when she has successfully reached the bedroom without killing herself on the assortment of shoes lining the hall, points. Cosima squints at the spot above the bed, where…

"Is that a  _spider_?”

Delphine’s bottom lip is between her teeth, her eyes huge and anxious. “I tried to suck it up,” she repeats, “but I did not want to jostle it onto the bed, you know? I can’t sleep with it up there. Please?”

She holds the extension out to Cosima, looking pitiful. Cosima grins at her, not too sleepy to be just a little bit of a dick.

"You’re scared of  _spiders_?”

"Not scared," Delphine replies sharply. "I just don’t want them where I  _sleep_. Cosima, please?”

"Not sure when I got bug-killin’ duty," Cosima teases, but she’s already moving toward the bed, climbing up and bouncing slightly in place as she surveys the situation. The spider is actually pretty big—not  _freak-out-and-bail_  big, but near enough. “You got tissue?”

Delphine dashes for the bathroom and returns a second later with a roll of toilet paper. Good enough. Cosima tears a few sheets off, winds them around her hand, and creeps closer to the wall. 

"Spider-man," she hums under her breath, "Spider-man, does whatever a…spider…can!"

She swipes, misses, nearly overbalances. The spider doesn’t budge. She glares at it, catching herself on the wall, and makes another pass. 

"Look out!" she sings cheerfully, holding up the squashed thing in its tissue prison. "Here comes the Spider-man!"

Delphine still looks a little embarrassed, but she’s laughing. “You always sing while committing bug-murder?”

"Excuse you." Cosima hops down, pads to the bathroom, and flushes the nasty little dude away before it can call for reinforcements. "Arachnid. And anyway, I can commit bug-murder any way I please, if you can call me in the middle of the night to handle the sitch."

Delphine bows her head, properly chastised. “Thank you,” she says, sincerely enough to make Cosima touch her hand lightly. “I know it’s silly, I just…I appreciate you doing that.”

"No worries, citizen," Cosima says in her best Epic Hero voice. "I live to serve." She pauses, thinking. "And also to reap totally unnecessary rewards for small tasks."

Delphine raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

"I mean, whatever you think is fair," Cosima adds. "Cash, gift cards, a nice five-star dinner—"

Delphine’s mouth is soft and tentative, smoothing across hers in one gentle swipe. Cosima’s eyes flutter, her hand coming up instinctively to catch on Delphine’s elbow as she sways. 

"I also accept," she murmurs, "kisses from hot doctors. Totally. Totally fair."

She never quite makes it back to her apartment that night. 

 


	15. Badminton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> If you have the time (: … Klutzy high-school Cosima who gets injured in PE and school nurse or ER doc Delphine. P.S I love your work! You’re incredibly talented *swoons*… The way you capture their personalities no matter the universe they’re in is absolutely amazing!

”You’re amazing, you know that?” Sarah asks conversationally, limping along under Cosima’s weight. “I mean, who injures themselves playing  _badminton_ , for Chrissake? You are truly a marvel of science.”

"Gonna put that as my yearbook quote," Cosima grunts. Her ankle is throbbing nearly as badly as her pride. Sarah Manning is actually the  _last_ person she’d like to carry her to the nurse’s office, but when it comes to skivving off gym, Sarah is pretty much a dead pro. Before Cosima could begin to protest, she’d already hiked her up around the waist and begun dragging her out the door. 

"I’m just sayin’," Sarah goes on, shifting Cosima’s arm around her shoulders. "Marvel. What’s next, you gonna split your skull open before swim?"

"I think I can make it from here," Cosima mutters, doing her best to pull away, and nearly faceplanting when Sarah takes a hearty step backward. 

"Yeah? Cool. Stump along then, geek monkey. Good luck not lookin’ a total dipshit when you explain to Nurse Cormier, yeah? What is this, fourth time this month?"

Her face colors, but Sarah is already jogging away—in the opposite direction of the gymnasium, she can’t help noticing. Go figure. Grimacing, she drags herself the remainder of the way into the office, gripping the doorframe for balance. Sarah was right; this utterly pathetic. Badminton. Christ, she might as well have stepped in a  _hole_ walking the track. 

"Hey, I, um. Broke myself."

She gives an awkward little wave with the hand not keeping a death grip on the doorframe, flushing harder when Nurse Cormier lifts her head from paperwork of unknown origins and blinks. “Broke?”

"Yeah, y’know. Gym. Nerd. Not a historically stellar combo-pack."

Nurse Cormier pushes herself up and hurries to catch Cosima by the elbow before she can smack her face on the waiting room-style chairs on the way in. “Again? Come here, sit, sit. What did you…”

"Do this time?" She gives a wry grin, settling herself on the paper-covered table in the center of the room. With the weight off her ankle, she feels in much better spirits. Sure, she looks like a moron who can’t handle a simple jog across the gym, but at least she gets to enjoy the company of the hands-down hottest teacher in the school in the process. 

_Wonder if she’d be down for partying with a student_ , she thinks wistfully.  _Eighteen’s legal enough, and it’s not like she’s gonna be_ grading _me._

Unfortunately, Nurse Cormier remains a consummate professional, sliding a rolling stool over and carefully handling the puffed purple mess that is Cosima’s left ankle. Total shame. When the dumbass classes she is way too smart for get to dragging, Cosima’s favorite fallback fantasy involves this very room and table. Usually a lot less in the way of  _clothes_ , though. Unless you count red lace lingerie and Nurse Cormier’s lab coat. 

_Your daydreams are something out of an 80s music video_ , Sarah Manning once groaned, when they’d been playing hooky and Cosima had—in a fit of stoner lust—let this slip.  _Christ, geek monkey, could you be more predictable?_

"Am I, uh. Gonna be needing cybernetic enhancements, or…?" She’s grinning down at the top of Nurse Cormier’s gorgeous head, trying her best not to picture the woman straddling her on this table, shoving her back and kissing her blind. Her fingers stray to the bow of her glasses, pushing them up on her nose as Nurse Cormier smiles back. Reassuring. Lady’s got  _great_  bedside manner. 

"I think you will be fine. Just a bit of a twist. Do you mind sitting here for a while with an ice pack?"

"Mind?"  _No, ma’am, not in the least._ "Do I really have a choice?"

She’s flirting. Sarah would be smacking her upside the head, if she could see, but Sarah is probably halfway through a joint in the art room by now. Nurse Cormier raises an eyebrow—less at the charm, Cosima thinks, and more because she believes Cosima is being needlessly  _cheeky_. 

(It would not be the first time she’s been called cheeky by this woman. She’s actually grown fairly fond of the descriptor—so long as it’s Nurse Cormier making use of it.)

"No," she says, and rolls toward the mini-freezer stocked with ice packs. "Doctor’s orders. Hold this one for a few minutes, and we’ll take another look. Here."

Her fingers are warm, brushing Cosima’s hand as she slaps a frozen blue gel pack into her palm. Her lips are very pink, her eyes bright. She’s gorgeous, and Cosima desperately wishes she were in college already—or, hell, even a damn dropout. Anything to get something out of this woman other than  _ice packs_. 

"You know," Nurse Cormier says calmly, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest as Cosima presses the ice against her ankle. "I’m beginning to think we ought to wrap you in that bubble paper. Are you this accident prone at home?"

"Hard to do permanent damage in a computer chair," Cosima quips, wincing at a sudden flare of pain. "Shit—you know ice actually makes it hurt  _more_?”

"Language," Nurse Cormier reminds her, hardly sounding as though she cares one way or the other. "It will do you good. Anyway, you ought to be more careful. I seem to see you twice a week."

This is not, Cosima thinks wryly, totally unintentional. Sure, sometimes— _badminton, Jesus_ —the damage is legit. Other times, it is not inconceivable that she might fake a mild headache to get out of yet another pointless experiment better suited to a fifth grade Science Olympiad event. Not that Nurse Cormier needs to know this. 

"Maybe I’m just fond of you," Cosima teases. Nurse Cormier gives her a light slap on the knee, almost too playful to be teacherly. Almost. 

"One of these days, they’re going to wheel you in in pieces, and  _fond_  won’t even be on the table. Keep that ice on.”

_Consummate professional_ , she thinks again with a sigh as the woman rolls back to her paperwork. She’s too gorgeous for words, and Cosima thinks the best choice this school ever made was to hire a hot young nurse. Still. It  _sucks_ , being a damn student. She’d give anything to ask Nurse Cormier— _Delphine_ —out for coffee, or foreign films, or a nice long make-out session in her crappy little car. Anything at all.

_As soon as I_ _graduate_ , she promises herself, grinning more widely when Nurse Cormier glances up and gestures toward the ice pack. 

In the meantime, a few more faked migraines can’t hurt. 

(She really has to improve the klutz thing, though. No  _way_  will Nurse Cormier bang a chick who can’t even walk a straight line—no matter how legal it is.)


	16. Book Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> swarm0 asked you:  
> Dude you write some amazing ficlets on here (should totally post on FFor Ao3). Anyways, Cophine. Cosima needs to checkout books in the library for her class, but someone always gets to them first and she’s determined to find this Delphine Cormier and give her a piece of her mind.

”I’m sorry,” the man behind the desk says. He actually  _looks_  sorry, the way customer service reps in the real world never do, and Cosima thinks this probably has a lot to do with being in her class and watching her struggle this way  _all damn month_. “It looks like that one’s been—”

"If you say checked out," Cosima cuts him off through gritted teeth, "we are going to have  _words_ , Sean.  _Words_.”

He mimes zipping his lips, and she thunks a hand down on the counter. “You’re  _kidding_  me. Okay, c’mon. C’mon, you have to do it.”

"It’s against the rules," he says feebly. She glares up at him, propping the soles of her shoes against that little railing that gives her an extra inch of height. 

"You promised. You said if it happened  _one more time_ , you would give me the name of the  _asshole_ who’s been getting the jump on me all this time. C’mon, Sean, you owe me. You think I didn’t notice you copying my lab last week?”

He goes a brilliant shade of puce, and sets to clattering around the library computer for a minute, shoulders hunched up like he expects her to start battering him around the head with her bookbag. “Cormier,” he admits at last. She cups a hand to her ear, and he raises his voice. “Delphine Cormier. That’s who’s been getting all your books. I swear, I don’t know anything else.”

This is starting to feel like a bad de Niro movie. She’d dig it if it wasn’t such a dire situation. “Address.”

"What? I can’t—"

"Give me her address," Cosima repeats, because it is nine PM, and she has a paper due in  _two freakin’ days_ , and if she thinks she’s going to single-handedly wreck an otherwise exceptional GPA, this Delphine Cormier chick has got another thing coming. Sean stares at her for a long, terrified moment, weighing the mild psychosis in her eyes against his job security—and then he’s scribbling numbers on a post-it note and jamming it into her hand. 

Admittedly, stomping up to a total stranger’s dorm and pounding on the door is  _not_  the ideal way to make friends. She knows this, in her rational mind, but her rational mind is a bit busy flailing in abject panic at the idea of failing this deeply important class. Her rational mind can totally take a hike. Delphine Cormier is going to—

She blinks, fist wilting even as it rebounds from a final knock. The woman who has pried the door open is barefoot, dressed in a tank top and the tightest blue jeans Cosima has laid eyes on in her life, and she is…

"Woah."

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

"I, uh. What?" 

"You were knocking my door down," the woman reminds her, unsmiling. Her brow is furrowed, and there are bags beneath her eyes. While unsettlingly beautiful, she looks as though she maybe hasn’t slept in a week or so. Cosima winces. 

"Were you sleeping? Because I’d feel  _really_  bad if you were sleeping—”

_Like you were selling some frickin’ Girl Scout cookies or some shit, come on._ Gorgeous woman be damned; she came here on a mission, and if she expects to scrape this paper together, she is going to walk out of here with at least one of those stupid books. 

"I was working," the woman says, still looking at her as if she is a new and rather confusing form of life. "In my dorm room. Where I work. And you are…?"

"Cosima," she replies, jerkily shoving a hand into the woman’s space. She accepts it gingerly, brushing the hair back from her face with her free hand, and Cosima tries to think of a way to phrase this that won’t sound unutterably insane. "And you’re Delphine?"

The woman’s brow crinkles uneasily. “How did you—”

"Librarian," Cosima blurts, which might well get Sean fired, but whatever. Dude deserves a taking-down, for cheating off her so blatantly. "Told me."

"The librarian told you my name," Delphine repeats slowly, looking more and more bewildered with every syllable uttered. "And where I live. At nine o’clock on a Wednesday night."

Cosima can practically see the subtext, scrawling itself on the air:  _this is not how it’s done in France._ She winces. 

"Look, it’s not as—well, it’s probably exactly as crazy as it sounds, but I can explain. See, I’ve got this molecular biology course, right, and it seems like…like all semester, whenever I’ve needed a book, it’s magically gone. Like, poof, y’know? Super weird. And it turns out that, um. You are. Sort of largely responsible for my hanging on by a fairly literal toenail to my four-point status this semester. Funny, huh?"

Delphine is shaking her head. Her hand is planted firmly against the doorframe, obstructing Cosima’s view of the room, but her body is leaning forward. Sort of a good sign, Cosima figures. At least she isn’t throwing things. 

"A toenail," she repeats. Cosima gives her most charming grin a try. 

"More or less. So I was thinking, maybe if you were done with…any of them, really, I could take some of those books off your hand? Because, see, I’ve got about forty-eight hours in which to pluck my whole life from the fire. Metaphorically speaking."

"You couldn’t find  _any_  other books?” Delphine asks wonderingly. Cosima frowns.

"Well, those were the best available sources. I mean, trust me, I’d have gone  _Google_  on this paper’s ass by now, but Dr. Farview’s got that mega-douchey outlook on the 21st century, and—”

"You have Dr. Farview?" Delphine repeats sharply. Cosima nods. 

"Total bore, right? I’d have whipped up a drop card faster than he can put a lecture hall into a coma, but it’s sort of deeply necessary for my career path, so…anyway, you don’t care about that." She’s fluttering her hands in a pacifist’s  _please accept my humblest_  gesture. “Books? Just one, even. I can bullshit like Icarus flapping those wings, if I could just borrow one book.”

"Icarus did not do so well," Delphine points out, but she’s miraculously stepping aside to let Cosima in. Her room is well-kept, if a bit cluttered, the coffee table in front of her futon covered with papers and most of the books Cosima has been searching for all month. 

"Woah. Serious battening-down of the proverbial hatches, huh?"

"It’s a difficult paper," Delphine says shortly, and sighs. Her whole body seems to sag inward, her fingers coming up to probe her temples. "I’m sorry. It’s been a long month."

"Tell me about it," Cosima quips, and wisely doesn’t add how her brain has been skittering faster and deeper into panic with every day gone without working on this godforsaken paper. Delphine meets her eyes in the mellow lamplight, smiling faintly. 

"The bad news," she says tiredly, "is I cannot just give you these books right now. They are integral to me keeping  _my_  four-point, you see. But, if you’re so inclined, I suppose I have a proposition for you.”

"A proposition for the loony chick who stalked you from the library," Cosima repeats, grinning. "I’m all ears."

"If you don’t mind working beside someone all night," Delphine suggests, "I will be happy to share the books. I’m very quiet, I won’t disturb you. It’s the least I can do, all things considered, but it is also, unfortunately, the most. Under the circumstances."

"Hey, not in a position to slap away a helping hand," Cosima agrees instantly. She really does  _need_ these books—and this woman being, like, Oscar starlet-hot means nothing. Nothing at all. It’s all about the book-learning. 

"And, in the future," Delphine adds, as she clears a space on the futon for Cosima to sink into, "might I make a suggestion?"

Cosima is nodding, fumbling her laptop out of her bookbag. Delphine smiles crookedly. 

"There is such a thing as  _email_ , you know. It works at least as well as storming a stranger’s dorm. Just if we’re forming ideas for the future.”

Blushing, but still rather pleased with herself, Cosima swipes a book off the table and shrugs. 

"Hey, my way worked just fine."

 


	17. Selling Souls (For Scarves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> I have a prompt for ya: Delphine works at the mall in a fairly expensive store and Cosima visits and basically empties her wallet weekly as an excuse to see the girl

_This is ridiculous. What use do you even_ have _for a place like this? You don’t even_ like  _scarves._

This is common sense. Common sense  _used_  to be her best friend. Common sense used to motor her through classes and social situations. Common sense used to be the nightlight in the corner of her bedroom, soothing her to sleep. 

And what has she gone and done? 

Thrown it all out the window for a pair of really  _damn_  nice legs. 

She’s leaning her weight against the counter, part of her brain—the  _brain_  part, mostly—wishing the hot girl with  _Delphine_  etched across her nametag at least had the good sense to work in a bookstore. The other part is busy not thinking clearly at all, a muddled train of  _dear lord, who on earth has the right to be this beautiful-_ level proportions. 

This is a terrible idea. 

"It’s funny," Delphine is saying, with a flash of that smile that creeps into Cosima’s dreams and makes itself right at home. "I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Before this month, I mean. Did you just start work here at the mall?"

"Uhh…" An outright lie can only make this whole thing worse, so she shrugs. "I just. Really like this shop. That’s all."

Delphine gives her the kind of look that says,  _I’m totally picking up what you’re putting down, you big fat liar_ , but she’s kind enough not to say so out loud. “And you’re looking to buy another scarf. Really?”

"Can never have too many," Cosima chirps brightly, and immediately hates herself for it. It’s too late to take back the very obvious wince, anyway. "Ugh. I mean, hey, I tried."

Delphine laughs, a light, melodious sound that instantly shoves her pretty smile off the  _first place_  bracket in Cosima’s head. “You certainly did.”

"Anyway," Cosima blusters on, elbows on the counter, eyes flicking over Delphine’s shoulder so she can at least pretend to have come here for genuine purposes. Purposes which are not  _I’ve sold my soul to the scarf-elves for another ten minutes in your_ _company._  ”How do you know you’ve never seen me? Maybe I’m in here all the time. Maybe I’m a scarf ninja.”

_Uber-cringe._ Delphine raises her eyebrows, her lips bowing in a private sort of amusement. 

"I’m certain I would remember."

Cosima pokes her tongue between her teeth, weighing the pros and cons of vaulting this counter and zipping a kiss against Delphine’s disarmingly perfect mouth here and now.  _Pros: might never have to buy another eighty-five dollar scarf. Cons: probs won’t make it out of this mall alive. Win some, lose some…_

"So?" Delphine is reaching for the speciality rack behind the counter, all silk items that would look  _totally boss_ —on Cosima’s grandmother. There isn’t a thing in this fancy-schmancy store with the kind of spastic printing, or Celtic-60s vibe, or  _anything_  that might suit Cosima’s personal style. And yet…

"Lemme see the green one." She reaches out, letting her fingertips linger against Delphine’s for several seconds longer than necessary. The saleswoman doesn’t pull away. Encouraging.  _Terrible_ , for her dwindling common sense, but still. 

"I think the purple might suit you better," Delphine suggests, unwinding a plum-colored length of silk and draping it carefully around Cosima’s throat. Her fingers are hot, reckless on Cosima’s skin as she settles the scarf into place, adjusts it once, leans back to admire her handiwork. "Yes. Definitely the purple."

_Don’t do it,_ the tiny bit of her brain still behaving itself warns.  _Don’t you dare do it, you have books, Cosima Niehaus. You have books, and you have rent, and you have—_

"Purple it is!"

_Sweet Jesus on a stick._

Delphine smiles at her, long and bright. “Would you like it gift-wrapped?”

_Sure. Absolutely. Why deviate now?_

Next time, she is going to do it. She is going to ask Delphine out. She’s going to make all of these idiot trips to the most expensive fucking scarf shop  _on planet Earth_  worthwhile. Next time. For sure. 

It isn’t until she’s home, testing the scarf with her favorite blouse, that she even sees the 10-digit number scrawled into the back of her receipt. 


	18. Airborne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ninosbrain asked you:  
> Air hostess Delphine on a long, quite empty flight with 1st class passenger Cosima because Delphine in an air hostess uniform hot damn

She can’t remember the last time a plane was this empty. 

It’s an evening flight, long and meandering, working its way across the ocean. Normally, this sort of flight would be jam-packed with squalling children, restless businessmen, college students hyped for their first transatlantic voyage. Normally, she would be unbearably busy from liftoff to touchdown. 

Tonight, it is only her, and the woman in first class. 

She putters around for the first hour or so, making sure the spotless plane doesn’t miraculously dirty itself, making sure the empty luggage compartments are all latched, making sure she is  _fit_  for this job she’s taken on so recently. Months in the air, and it honestly still twists her stomach into knots sometimes. Even on long, meandering flights from San Francisco to London, long, meandering flights which show no signs of trouble at all.

One passenger. It’s incredible.

More incredible still, the woman does not  _look_ like she belongs in first class. Her hair is wound into tight dreadlocks, clipped casually at the back of her head. Her glasses are thick and clean, her dress bohemian. She is all color splashes and calm smiles. She looks like she should be traveling with an entire pack of similarly young, fresh-faced people, all set to take the world by storm. 

Instead, she sits upright, tapping at the keys of a worn laptop, and her only pauses come in the form of glances stolen when she does not think Delphine is looking. This is plainly not her first plane ride; she gives no sign of anxiety, does not clutch the armrests at takeoff, or tremble when they strike light pockets of turbulent air. She is very still, almost distracted. Very cool. 

And Delphine is, against all protocol, stunned by her presence. 

When the woman catches her wrist three hours into the eleven-hour flight ( _barring difficulties_ _,_ Delphine reminds herself, because these things do happen, and a flexible hostess is a good hostess), Delphine nearly jumps out of her skin. She expects the woman to ask something uncharacteristic of her laid-back facade—something about today’s meal, perhaps, or a sharp question as to why she is the only member of this flight. Instead, the woman smiles up at her. 

"Hey. I’m Cosima."

"Delphine," she says, taken aback by the sheer natural friendliness of the moment. "Is there something I can get for you, Miss?"

"Just Cosima," the woman laughs, and gestures heartily at the seat nearest to her. "Pull up a cushion, will you? Gonna be a long flight, and I don’t think those glasses can take another polishing."

She tips her head in the direction of the drink cart. Delphine feels her face color, strongly considering pushing the invitation aside. Polite, but firm; she has  _responsibilities_ , to keep this flight as comfortable and pleasant as possible.

_For whom?_ The woman, this Cosima, is looking at her with eyebrows raised, her smile suggesting she knows precisely what Delphine is thinking. Her hands move instinctively to smooth down her uniform’s skirt, even as she slides into the seat Cosima had pointed to. 

"Just for a little while," she says, as professionally as she can while blushing this way. "I have…"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Cosima’s voice is easy, perfectly without judgment. She leans back, elbows bent behind her head, and surveys Delphine with a long, appraising look. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Six months next week." It pops out of her, automatic as her name, or date of birth. Cosima looks impressed. 

"Practically a newborn. That’s awesome. Bet it hasn’t gotten a chance to get worn-out yet, huh?"

"I enjoy it," Delphine answers, a little stiffly. Cosima gestures toward the window. 

"Well, why wouldn’t you? I mean, unless you’re, like, petrified of flying. That might take the skin off of things. You’re not, are you?"

"I love it," Delphine says, and this time, it comes out in her normal voice. Cosima looks relieved. 

"Oh, good. It would suck hard to be up in the air all the time, constantly thinking you’re gonna die at any minute. I try to avoid flying myself, if I can help it. Not really my bag."

"You’re here," Delphine points out. Cosima grimaces. 

"Yeah, wasn’t really my say. I’ve got this…uh…let’s call her a sister."

"Let’s call?" Delphine wonders. Cosima flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

"Just for the sake of sanity. A sister-type. Real tight-ass, totally shitty haircut, makes her look like a robot. She, um. Gave me a choice. Not a very good one, really. Pay her a visit or…"

She shrugs, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Delphine is struck by the insane desire to reach for her, to cover her knee with a comforting hand. She resists. A good hostess never crosses boundaries that way. You do not take liberties with the passengers. Not even on the emptiest of flights. 

"Anyway, it was London or bust, more or less. I wasn’t feeling the bust. You ever been?"

"Many times," Delphine answers. Cosima leans forward a bit, eyes glittering.

"You ever actually touch down? Explore a little?"

"I have…" She shrugs, smiling despite herself. "I’ve stopped to eat, and to use bathrooms. Once, I watched the rain on a break."

"You rebel!" Most people would inject a bit of bite into the teasing words. Cosima mostly just sounds amused. "You don’t get bored?"

"Flights are not normally this…quiet." She glances around, feeling suddenly uneasy, as if the plane might actually have filled to its normal capacity while she’s been sitting with Cosima. "I don’t know what to do with myself, if you want the truth."

"Well," Cosima says slowly. "I’ve got a few ideas. If you’re feeling adventurous."

The way she says it, her lips slowly peeling back in a grin, should be enough to send Delphine tottering into the back to perform a scrubdown of the miniature excuse for a toilet. She should not, under any circumstances, remain here. There are things which need doing. 

That she winds up playing a game of strip Egyptian Ratscrew—in which the person who fails to slap down on the deck in a timely fashion must immediately discard one article of clothing—with the mysterious Cosima is  _absolutely_ against her training. 

That she winds up with both shoes resting on the next seat, her earrings off, her blouse unbuttoned is—it goes without saying—far worse. 

"See?" Cosima, who hasn’t managed to lose a single piece of clothing, is shuffling her hand pleasantly. "Isn’t this more fun than counting old magazines, or whatever?"

"I’m cold," Delphine tells her, trying to hang on to her pout long enough to garner a little sympathy. Cosima’s eyes linger momentarily on her exposed collarbone, her smile broad and charming. 

"Maybe you ought to be a little faster, huh?"

"This is  _not_  in my job description,” Delphine informs her, laughing. She flips a two. Cosima flips a seven. She follows it with a nine, and sighs when Cosima’s next card is the Jack of Spades. “Do you have  _all_  of those?”

"Probably," Cosima says cheerfully, scooping up the pile when Delphine fails to turn over another face card. "What  _is_  your job description? Safety measures, drink cart, puke bags?”

"That’s about the sum of it," Delphine agrees, not caring to explain that there is far more to it than such simplicity, that this job requires finesse and compassion—not that anyone ever notices. No one seems to notice her at all, in fact, unless they’re demanding a fresh soda or pinching her ass on her way up the aisle. 

Playing strip  _anything_ isn’t the optimum time to complain about the low points in your career, however. She settles for flipping the Queen of Hearts, and grinning when a third of the deck winds up in her hand. Cosima’s brow furrows. 

"You really do like it, though? All the travel?"

"Yes." She thinks about it for a second, and adds, "I always wanted to see the world. My ambitions were…larger than the sum of my family, or my city. I thought this would be the best way to test it all out. I am paid to go on adventures."

"But not to explore," Cosima points out. "Doesn’t that bum you out?"

She considers this, forgetting to slap when Cosima flips an eight of spades onto the eight of diamonds she’s just put down. Almost without thinking, she slips out of her left nylon stocking. 

"No," she says at last. "It’s a different sort of exploration, I suppose. I miss out on the tourist attractions and all that, but…I get to meet people. I get to see the sky. I get…"

_People like you in my life_ , she doesn’t quite have the gall to say. Cosima is looking at her hard, her eyes ringed with coal, her smile sincere, if a bit puzzled. 

"I get things I’d never have on the ground," she finishes at last, feeling a little foolish. Cosima reaches over, covering her hand with strong fingers, a surprisingly broad palm. She is very gentle. 

"Good enough for me."

Delphine glances down at the gold watch at her left wrist. Hours to go yet. She probably ought to get up, check on the in-flight meal. Or the pilot. Anything but this lovely, comfortable cabin with its singular lovely, comfortable occupant. She does have a  _job_  to do.

"Hey, Delphine?"

"Mm?"

Cosima taps the screen set into the seat in front of her, smiling. “You wanna catch a movie?”

"That depends," Delphine hears herself drawl, rather against the wishes of the rule-abiding citizen in her head. Cosima tips her head to the left, curious.

"On what? I don’t think these are gonna be Oscar-winning choices."

"Can I put my clothes back on?" Delphine asks, and bursts into giggles when recognition dawns on Cosima’s face. 

"Shit! Well. I mean, technically, we haven’t finished the game…"

"If we pick back up again," Delphine suggests, "I will go back to where I am now. Take inventory, quick! I’m freezing!"

"No shirt," Cosima says, a bit too immediately. Her face burns with color, her smile not the least bit shameful. "Or shoes, or…well, service, probably. Not that I’m complaining."

Pleasurably embarrassed, Delphine pulls her blouse back around her shoulders, fingers slipping on the smooth buttons. Cosima angles her eyes away, suddenly chivalrous. 

"What movie did you have in mind?" Delphine asks, shattering the extended, too-warm moment that seems to have settled over the cabin. Cosima clears her throat. 

"I, uh. Toy Story?"

This is not, Delphine thinks as she settles in, the sort of flight to which she has grown accustomed. This is, unequivocally, the  _strangest_  flight she’s ever hosted, in fact. 

It is also, she thinks, when Cosima’s head bobs lightly onto her shoulder half an hour into the film, her favorite yet. 

 


	19. (You're) Just Like A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> I have a weird hankering- maybe because it’s summer and the perfect time to feel wistful and nostalgic- for an au where cosima and delphine met in high school and were each other’s first love. And they meet again, years later, the ages they are on the show. Maybe in the interim, cosima battled her sickness and maybe delphine had an ill-fated relationship with her boss but they still thought of each other sometimes, particularly when they heard certain songs on the radio.

_I opened up my eyes_   
_And found myself alone alone_   
_Alone above a raging sea_   
_That stole the only girl I loved_   
_And drowned her deep inside of me_

-The Cure, “Just Like Heaven”

***

It’s funny, how people drift in and out of your life. Funny, sure. Strange, too. They slip into the cracks between  _last week and five minutes ago_. They tap-dance on the last notes of a love song. They drift, and they bob, and sometimes, you think you love them more in a memory than you ever could have in real time. 

She never expected to see Delphine Cormier again.

It’s an old story. The oldest, maybe. Girl meets girl. Seventeen, dancing on the cusp of graduation. You meet a girl, and the whole world seems to burn that much brighter, and all for you. It shouldn’t have been her focus, of course; she should have been slaving away, knocking early college credits out of the park. Sa- _wing_ , battah, and call it a damn day. She could have been halfway across the country by January, a brain like hers. 

Could have. 

But there was Delphine.

The foreign exchange student, ahhh, yes. Could she be a bigger cliche? Cosima doesn’t think it much matters; the old standbys exist for a reason, and what better reason is there than long legs, shapely hips, a tumble of exhilarating blonde hair? The accent was just the kicker, that cherry on the ol’ sundae of life. Delphine Cormier was the whole package, and it took Cosima less than the fifteen seconds required for Delphine to glance up from her locker, meet her eyes, and smile to fall flat on her back. 

_Bless the locker gods_ , she’d thought then, grinning idiotically to herself.  _Bless them, sacrifice to them, keep them ever-happy._ The locker gods gave her Delphine.  _If ever there was a reason for conversion, Houston—I think we’ve found it._

Yes, the oldest story that ever was: girl meets girl, and though one girl’s grasp of French was tenuous, at best, and though the other girl seemed in every way the Classic Straight Beauty—sparks. Sparks, and flame, and suddenly…

Suddenly, it was everything. Everything Cosima had ever wanted. Everything she’d seen in a million movies, felt thrumming through her system in the chords of a million songs. Everything that could have been, should have been, was bound up in one delightfully  _brilliant_  French girl. There you have it, friends and neighbors. Sometimes, the party  _does_  send you an invite.

But things…

Well, things  _happen_ , man. The lines that seem so clear at seventeen develop breaks by your sophomore year of college, and suddenly, you forget to follow the story to its then-natural conclusion. The girl you spent all year going through the rhythm of relationship with—that first kiss, heady and awkward, on the front steps of the school; that first admission of love, with ice cream still painting your lips; the first time her fingertips, trembling, skidding across your bare skin and you thought,  _They don’t tell you what it’s really like. They don’t have words for it_ —is suddenly the girl nearly six thousand miles away. The girl who sends letters in looping handwriting, and who likes your Facebook photos, and then just…

Fades?

Yes. Sucks, man, it royally and truly does, but she figures, shit happens. She found college. She found a path. Delphine, once upon a December, would have been  _on_ that path (better—she would have been  _one_  with the path, laid into the very foundation of that yellow-brick road), but things change. You learn that maybe letters aren’t the same as a honest-to-God hand tucked into your own. You learn that maybe memories don’t fuel that fire quite the way a pair of welcoming lips do. You learn. Period. Tab on, sister, and start that fresh page. 

First loves are good and all, but they don’t  _last_. Everybody knows that. Disney is horseshit set to a pretty melody, and if you still clap for fairies, well. You might want to get that looked at. 

Even with all of that being so, even with an ocean between them, she never minded the love songs—the ones they danced to at Prom, the ones they made clumsy, inarticulate love to in her bedroom on weekends. The love songs are well and good; there are a million of ‘em, and when one skids across her airwaves, she always stops and lets herself sink. Just for a little while. Just four-minute increments of  _Delphine_. It’s good. It’s healthy. 

She was never supposed to actually see Delphine Cormier again. 

And yet.

***

"Cosima?"

Her head swivels, her ears ringing with the delicate expulsion of her name. It would be all well and good, most days, to hear a woman utter those syllables that way—breathless, and just the tiniest bit awestruck—except this is  _Canada_ , man. Not a single person in this country ought to know her from Eve.

So, y’know. Creepy.

Still, she turns, a bit more slowly than she might have two years ago. Disease makes you old before your time. No matter that she kicked the thing’s taillights out. No matter that it’s  _over_ , thanks so much; ten out of ten doctors agree, she is  _clear_ , not a single sparkling polyp to speak of.  _Can I get an a-men._

"Cosima?" the woman repeats, and Cosima feels all the spit in her mouth go mysteriously  _elsewhere_. The smile which floats on her lips just about twenty-four seven these days (hey, new lease on life, baby; take what you can get) evaporates. Her hand flashes out, catching on a rather conveniently placed mailbox, saving her pride from that inevitable awkward  _you just face-planted into the ground at the sight of your ex_  thing.  _Thanks, Mr. Mailbox._

"Delphine?"

She older now; there’s no denying it. There are fresh lines around her smile and eyes—not so many that you’d call her  _haggard_ , of course, but they’re there. Delphine, nearly thirty now, but just as tall, and blonde, and beautiful as the teenage girl who romps through Cosima’s dreams. She’s got a permanent pass-key to that area of Cosima’s head, it seems. She’d sort of stopped fighting it when the disease was at its worst. Tiny pleasures, right?

"What are you—" They halt, biting off on the same word, and Cosima finds herself grinning. Delphine is older, but that accent is as thick and as seductive as ever. And her  _eyes_. No one on this planet has ever looked at her with eyes like those. 

"You first," Delphine offers graciously. Cosima shakes her head. 

"You’re in  _Canada_?”

"I work in Canada," Delphine says, pleasantly. " _You_  are also here, I must point out.”

"Yeah, yeah—lab tech." She feels distant, dazed. Absurdly, there is a snatch of melody in her head— _show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…_ —twisting lazily around and around. She sways with it, hand clamped around the mailbox like it’s the last lifeboat in a capsized ship. “I, uh. Came up here for treatment, and just got…used to it, I guess.”

"Treatment?" Delphine repeats, forehead wrinkling. Cosima is struck by the wild urge to reach out and smooth those lines away before they can become permanent. Delphine wears her age well, but she is suddenly horrorstruck at the idea of that girl—this  _woman_ —advancing before her eyes. The memory is already shifting, morphing sweetly into something new. It frightens her a bit, to think how quickly a thing like that could change.

_Show me, show me how you do that trick…the one that makes me scream, she said…_

Where had that song fit into the story? Prom? Yes. And that night, her parents out of town, the two of them hunched over the dining room table. The Cure on Delphine’s iPod. A bottle of wine between them. She hadn’t yet learned to appreciate the finer taste qualities of a fine wine, not then, but she’d faked it as best she could. Delphine never seemed to mind. 

_Show me, show me, show me…_

"Cosima?"

She lifts her head, suddenly aware that she has been staring into space for the better part of a minute. “Mm? Oh, yeah, that. No big. Just had, like, some massive life-threatening thing for a hot second. I’m good now,” she adds in a rush, catching sight of Delphine’s horrified expression. “Seriously. Clean as a whistle, or…whatever. You work here?”

"I am in…immunology," Delphine says, so haltingly that Cosima knows she’s still working over the  _life-threatening_ part of the conversation. Of course she is. That’s not the sort of thing you drop on an old friend. Flame. Love of your life. She should have floated it a hell of a lot softer, just for old time’s sake. 

There are a lot of  _should’s_  here, all tangled together like the cords behind her computer desk. She brushes them off. 

"Canada, though, wow. That’s. I mean, that’s not France."

Delphine smiles faintly. “No, certainly not. I was…” 

_Running_. The word explodes into her head, neon and glittering. Delphine doesn’t wrap her mouth around it, not quite, but it’s in the slight bend of her knees, the awkward posture of her shoulders. She’s embarrassed about whatever it was. Too embarrassed to share with someone she hasn’t seen in a decade, of course—

"A bad relationship," she says, not half as dully as Cosima would have expected. "Sour blood, you might say."

"Bad guy?" It slips out, an automatic assumption. Delphine does not correct her. Fine enough. She’s always known she was a case of  _one and likely only_ , in Delphine’s world. Bisexuality is a fluid, weaving thing. She’s stunned by it, charmed by it, made humble by its natural grace. Still, it’s strange, picturing Delphine in the arms of some man who managed to chase her all the way to _Canada_. She doesn’t dig it. 

Delphine, for her part, purses her lips and shrugs. “Not…bad. Simply, ah. Unhealthy, in his own way. He was my superior. We did not part amicably. I did not…believe in his methods, you might say.”

Cosima nods, and lets the rest of the story sift by without grabbing for it. Delphine looks good, but not good enough to tell long tales of broken career paths and poor choices. And, anyway,  _she’s_  not looking to tell the arduous tale of a hundred different pills, therapies, treatments that looked as though they might catch until they, inevitably, fell short. It all worked out in the end. That’s what counts. Leave the rest where it lies, and toss a rose on the grave for luck.

_The one that makes me laugh, she said…threw her arms around my neck…_

"It’s…really good to see you." She’d say it for anyone, to smooth the juncture between past and present, but with Delphine, she means it. It’s the oldest story there is, after all. Girl meets girl. Has to end somehow, but…still nice. Still very nice. 

Delphine still has that smile. 

"I—" Hesitation. There was a time when such a thing would never have stood between them, that endless pause where one scratches her head and the other bites her lip, and neither can find the courage to say what needs saying. Cosima swallows a sigh. Oceans steal much more than intimacy, it seems. Oceans steal everything. The oldest story. 

"Coffee?"

She blurts it out without thinking. Her mind is on oceans, on The Cure, on Delphine’s eyelashes. She blurts it out, and Delphine tips her head and smiles that smile, and she thinks,  _Yeah, it’s over. Been over forever. So what?_

"Just…to catch up," she says quickly, when Delphine doesn’t move immediately to respond. "Just to line it all up again. It’s been a minute, y’know?"

Delphine nods, and Cosima falls into step with her, leaving her good friend, the mailbox, in the dust. She still feels tired in her bones, a blow only a brush with the reaper can really deal out. She is tired, but there is something invigorating about Delphine’s nearness, the brush of her fingertips when her hand slides too close on a downswing. She was never supposed to see Delphine again, but  _supposed to_  is just as silly as  _maybe,_ and  _never_ , and  _should_. Because Delphine  _is_ here, not just in the muddled, fever dreams or the radio DJ choices. Delphine is  _here_. 

"You look great," she says, feeling not at all self-conscious when Delphine’s eyes switch toward her own. "Not at all like you made a break for it from a shithouse relationship, I mean. Or…yeah. That."

Anyone else would take offense. Anyone else would require the  _I’m still pulling it together_ ,  _still learning to be a person again, after all that hospital shit_  card. Not Delphine. Somehow, she’d known that, or she would never have said it. 

"I look tired," Delphine points out. "Long rotation. Not nearly enough sleep."

"Yeah? Well, I almost died," Cosima says brightly. "Gotcha."

Coffee. It isn’t a big red button, a time machine, a marriage proposal. It might be nothing at all. This time tomorrow, Delphine could be back in her head again, fitting neatly between radio airwaves. Who knows? First loves don’t last forever. 

_Daylight licked me into shape…must’ve been asleep for days…_

She was never supposed to see Delphine Cormier again. 

It’s nice to be surprised. 


	20. Walmart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Cosima the friendly Walmart employee keeps following Delphine around and asking to help her with something, prompt. Thank you

”Can I help you?” the woman in the bright blue vest asks hopefully, and Delphine actually feels sort of bad for shaking her head. It’s nothing personal; the employee is likely very nice. Her smile even looks genuine, the way very few retail junkies can manage, and it’s a  _nice_  smile. 

But if Delphine needed help picking out socks and a loaf of bread, she wouldn’t be here at three in the morning on her own. 

The woman shrugs. “Okay, well. Lemme know.” There is cheer in her voice, and the tiniest shred of disappointment. Delphine grants her a smile of her own, feeling blurry around the edges the way she always does after a superhuman shift at the hospital. She’s still in her scrubs, and her hair is wound up at the back of her head in the most reckless excuse for a ponytail ever, and she can practically hear her father (love him, yes, but also strive to  _never_  be that snobbish,  _never_  be that  _obviously_  wealthy) in her head.  _You should take more pride in your appearance, my dear._

It’s three in the morning. It’s Walmart. She deserves a pass.

"You’re sure?" The woman is still hovering at her side, toying absently with the array of silver bracelets on one wrist. “‘Cuz, like, not that I don’t trust your judgment, but you’ve kinda been staring down that shelf for a long time."

"I’m fine," Delphine says, grateful that she comes off exhausted rather than snappish. Snapping at  _the help_  is her father’s way. Dr. Cormier is better than that. And this woman clearly does mean well. 

Although…

"Are you following me?" Accusatory. The woman falters for half a second, shrugs, and regains her footing without another blink.

"Yup."

"I don’t need help," Delphine repeats, frazzled. The woman— _Cosima,_ announces the tag pinned to her vest—gives her a gentle grin, as Delphine punctuates this assertion by tripping over an endcap and nearly spilling clearance donuts every which way. 

"Uh huh."

"It’s been a long night," Delphine tells her. The woman looks her up and down, appraisingly. 

"Obviously. Hey, is that  _blood_?”

Delphine jerks her zip-up more tightly around herself, flushing. “It’s—I’m—doctor.”

"Oh, not yet," Cosima says cheerfully. "Still doing the school thing. But I dig the compliment."

"No—no,  _I’m_ —” She cuts herself off. The woman is laughing at her, she realizes, but it’s a gentle laughter. The sort that doesn’t make you feel bad for wandering around Walmart at three in the morning, in scrubs that needed to be washed two days ago, feeling as though you are moving through a jell-o mold. “You are making fun.”

"Sorry, sorry." Hands flutter in front of Cosima’s face, apologetic. "You kinda have to make your own fun around here, you know? Hey, seriously, if I can help you find something, or…" She shrugs. "It’s just, I’m not sure it’s safe to let you bumble around by yourself. You look half-asleep as it is."

"I think I can handle myself in Walmart," Delphine tells her dryly. Cosima gives that apologetic hand wave again, taking a large step backward and nearly knocking down that donut display herself. 

"Sure, yeah, of course. Sorry for the trouble. Just let me know—"

"You are bored," Delphine observes, cutting her off. Cosima’s shoulders lift and drop carelessly. 

"Duh. Look around, man. Kind of totally  _dead_. Like,  _take shelter, the apocalypse has come at last_.”

"How long is your shift?" Polite conversation. Her father would be rolling his eyes, but she finds it’s nice, talking to this strange woman. It’s keeping her awake, at any rate, as she fumbles along into the next aisle and inspects the cereal options. 

“‘til seven. It’s  _killer_. But I don’t have Wednesday classes, and Scott does, so I let him bug off early.”

"That was kind of you," Delphine muses. Cosima bares her teeth in that effervescent grin again. 

"Yeah, well. Can’t say I mind."

"No?"

"If I know Scott, he’s passed out over his Xbox right now. Which means he’s, y’know." She pauses, considering Delphine. "Not meeting pretty doctor girls."

Red-faced and smiling despite herself, Delphine turns toward the breakfast options again. 


	21. Grease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> OKAY fic prompt (from prolethean/cosima-hella-niehaus’ cophine au headcanon list): the 20’s au; cosima’s a greasemonkey, delphine is… rich. very rich

The garage is really more of a  _room_ , dank and underlit, and her stomach twists with anxiety just being here. It is unseemly, to say the very least. Her father would not approvae; her mother, even less so. If they had any idea…

_They will not_ , she reminds herself,  _once the mistake is corrected. They will never suspect a thing._

Certainly not that their daughter, the perfect picture of beauty and wealth, could have been charmed into taking their beloved Ford out for a jaunt. Certainly not that the very self-same daughter, distracted and admittedly not an ideal driver, could have twisted the wheel a fraction of a second too late to skirt a tree. Certainly not. It just wouldn’t do.

Much like this garage, Delphine sees no reason whatsoever to grant her parents access to such a travesty. 

"Well," the girl says, giving the Ford a genial pat. "S’not going to be cheap, I can tell you that much."

Delphine’s mouth turns down, her gaze flitting around in a habitual search for prying eyes. “Money is no object.”

"Lady," the girl drawls, "money is always _the_  object.” She lets her gaze crawl lazily up Delphine’s legs, the dark velvet of her dress, the rich plume of fur about her shoulders. Her shoulders twitch. “Though I’d guess you mean what you say. Got a daddy on the side you’d rather the man of the house not know about?” _  
_

Her face flushes at the implication. “It’s my father’s car. I—made a mistake with it, is all, and I’d prefer it not get back to him. Can you do the thing, or not?”

"Baby, I can play  _all_  the hits.” The woman, looking impossibly small in her grungy mechanic’s jumpsuit, laughs. Delphine frowns. 

"Then see to it, please. I’m in a hurry."

The woman—and she  _is_  a woman, Delphine notes, with a hint of quelled delight; she can just make out the outline of breasts and hips under that greasy gray outfit—tips her head and lets some of the bravado out of her grin. “As you wish, sweetheart.”

She says it simply, with none of the gusto Delphine has heard from too many men, and when she sets to work, it is at a perfectly comfortable clip. This is the first woman she has ever seen do a man’s job, and she is calm, her hands unexpectedly steady for how fanatically she had been flipping them around when Delphine walked in. Delphine watches for a long stretch of moments, understanding nothing except the easy pleasure the woman is obviously taking in her efforts under the Ford’s hood. She is not lacking in beauty, and there is evidently a great deal of intelligence in the way her mouth wraps around words. It’s a curious combination. 

"Why do you do this?" she asks, and when sharp eyes swing up to meet hers, Delphine wrestles against the impulse to apologize and fall silent. "Fix autos, I mean. Isn’t this…?"

The woman crooks a smile at her. “I like to make things tick,” is all her answer, and then she is tipping her cap back on her head, leaning her weight against the Ford, going about the job as if Delphine isn’t even there. Delphine goes quiet, wringing her hands against her belly. 

She expects the woman to tell her to buzz off, to go flit around outside until she’s finished, and is plainly astonished when—after only a few more minutes of work—the mechanic twists out from the Ford. “You want to see?”

Delphine shakes her head, envisioning oil spots down the front of her dress, but the woman is wrapping surprisingly strong hands around her own and pulling her forward. 

"Look, hey, I’ll walk you through it. Pretty girl like you ought to know what she’s getting herself into, she gets behind the wheel."

It is thoroughly against her better judgment, to listen to this bright-eyed grease monkey, and thoroughly against  _everything_ in her upbringing to actually let the woman touch her, much less guide her hands carefully around her father’s beloved automobile. Still, she finds herself soothed by the woman’s brilliance, and the grimy nature of her fingers makes them no less soft, cupped around Delphine’s. They make a strange pair, she suspects. Still. Still, it is…not her most tragically spent afternoon. 

Her father never does find out about the damage, and she leaves the woman a hefty tip for her trouble. 

(If she happens to return the following week, and allows the woman to take up the lesson again—this time with grease matting her hair, streaked across her cheek, her smile no less bright for it all—it is no one’s business but her own. She is a grown woman.

And Cosima is, after all, very good with her hands.)


	22. Pretty Little Rich Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> More greasemonkey!cosima and prestigious!delphine but only with more smut? At the back of the car or on the hood of the car Cosima is working on? Your writing is really good and you’re so nice! :D
> 
> Follow-up to Grease.

She is all hips, all sleek, all dancer-fine willow  _grace_ , and Cosima’s head is pinned neatly to this moment, forever and for always. There is no before, no after, no job, or rent, or  _life_  outside of this. 

One little rich girl, her skirts rucked up over her belly, and Cosima’s tipping over the edge. 

No one will ever know, and no one will ever  _judge_ , but Cosima hears them in her head all the same:  _Got a babydoll, do ya, Cos? Y’know, we let you in here ‘cuz Papa drives a good game, a hard bargain, runs the roost. Y’know, we let you in here ‘cuz we didn’t get much of a shot one way or the other. Riding a lady this way in the back, right up against tonight’s jalopy? Say it ain’t so, Cos._

She grunts, shouldering the voices away and pushing Delphine harder against the car. Delphine’s breath comes sluicing out of her in a rush, her hands murmuring up the back of Cosima’s shirt. Her legs are delicious, angled on either side of Cosima’s body, her breasts firm beneath the soft silk of her dress, and Cosima thinks,  _You’re a sap, you know that, you let some rich skirt sweep in and pull you up by the collar—_ but there’s no displeasure in the thought. There’s no displeasure at all, with Delphine rocking hot and steady against her, whining low in her throat. 

This isn’t  _teaching_ ; she’d be fooling them both to even suggest it, to imply that there was any  _teaching_  to the firm way her hands folded around Delphine’s after that first encounter. Pressed slyly up against her back, feeling the nestle of Delphine’s backside snug against her body,  _teaching_  had been the last thing on her mind. Automobiles are well and good, but this—this is a  _real_  lady, and a  _real_ lady deserves a very specific amount of attention.

Namely, all of it. 

She’s grinding forcefully against the front of Cosima’s shirt now, her groin flush to Cosima’s belly. The work jumpsuit she normally keeps zipped almost to her collar—don’t need to give the boys any extra juice to spurt her way—is loose around her waist, tied haphazardly in place. Her hands are clean today, though her hair is tied back with a greasy length of a rawhide, and her clothes are stained beyond a prayer. It’s the best she can do, given the circumstance. And the company. Good  _lord,_ the company. 

Delphine’s mouth seeks hers with a fanaticism Cosima finds almost funny. Poor little rich girl, all bent up over her daddy’s car. Poor little rich girl in her little rich girl furs and heels, her little rich girl pout. Poor little rich girl kisses something filthy, and Cosima finds herself groaning and gasping into her open mouth, her fingers slicking up the flexing muscle of Delphine’s calves, thighs, and—

“ _Oh_ ,” Delphine gasps, and follows up with something in French, something that comes pouring out in a stream of half-choked glory. Cosima nestles her nose against the elegant streamline of her throat, sucking at the soft skin, and cups her fingers against heat so fierce, it nearly steams in the afternoon air. Delphine rocks against her, likely bruising her tailbone something fierce on the Ford’s hood, and Cosima slides her free hand under her, cradling the base of her spine. 

"Easy," she whispers, "easy and slow"—but her fingers are sliding in, plunge and release, plunge and release, and Delphine is all parted lips and sloppy kisses.  _Ride it home, honey_ , she thinks with a giddiness that is so unlike the woman whose skin she’s been forced to inhabit in her father’s garage, she almost doesn’t recognize herself. Her tongue swirls at the base of Delphine’s jaw; in the same moment, her thumb is stroking a hot tempo across nervy, pliant skin, and Delphine is  _jolting_  up to meet her. 

Her own hips buck against the Ford’s frame, a jittering, rhythmless motion which gets her nowhere at all. It all Delphine, legs smooth and spread wide, hair a tumble, eyes fluttering. All Delphine, hands clenched in the lapel of Cosima’s once-white men’s shirt. All Delphine, rocking up so hard, she nearly socks Cosima’s elbow straight back into her own belly on the next thrust. 

She’s laughing, and groaning, and Delphine kisses her with frantic, here-and-gone ferocity. She’s  _gone_ , Cosima notes approvingly, reading the snapping arch of her back with the life lines etched into her own palm. She’s  _gone_ , and this whole thing is so  _tight_ , Cosima can’t bring herself to imagine any place but right here, right now. The grease stains on Delphine’s pretty little rich girl dress. The shoddy glow of the dying sun, sneaking through the window to catch a peek. The white-knuckled grasp of Delphine’s fingers on her shirt, sliding around, under the collar, lacing at the back of her neck and jerking her in. There is nothing  _but_  this. 

_Pretty little rich girl_ , she thinks fondly. And then, pleased beyond all measure: My  _pretty little rich girl. Good God, am I sunk._


	23. Poster Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> "one’s blind and falls in love with the other’s voice AU" PLEASE WRITE THIS FOR COPHINE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE please

”Woah, woah!”

Delphine is a bit too busy staggering, hands swinging up and out in an effort to catch hold of  _anything_  that might keep her upright, to fully focus on the woman over whom she has just tripped. A young woman, she recognizes from the corner of her eye. Pretty. Her glasses are a bit  _dark_  for a day this cloudy, perhaps, but that’s the style, and anyway, Delphine just nearly faceplanted into concrete. This is not the moment for obsessing over sunglasses. 

"Ah shit," the woman says, distantly. "I knocked somebody over again, didn’t I?"

_What a strange thing to say_ , Delphine thinks, relieved to find her feet grounded once more. If the woman managed somehow to miss her nearly making an utterly embarrassing display of herself in full view of the whole campus, she must be— _  
_

"Oh," she says, her voice very small. "Oh, I’m  _sorry_.”

The woman has a bag striped across her chest, two thick texts beneath her left arm, and a smile on her face. Her right hand is clamped loosely around a long, thin staff. And  _now_  the glasses make sense. Delphine feels her face flood with heat, her hands instinctively pressing to her lips. 

"I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I mean, I didn’t—"

"Hey," the woman says mildly, "that’s usually my line." She’s grinning. It’s a wonderfully broad, easy grin, almost childlike in its unthinking grace. It doesn’t make Delphine feel much better about tripping over a  _blind girl_ , but her pulse does make a clumsy stab for its normal rhythm. 

"I should have been watching where I was going," Delphine mumbles. "I’m really sorry."

"Would you be this sorry if I could see?" the woman asks, perfectly cheerful. Delphine stares at her.

"Wh—I’m sorry?"

"I mean, would you be doing the whole stammery-awkward deal if I had fully-functioning eyeballs? ‘Cuz if so, that’s really friggin’ adorable, don’t get me wrong. But if not, I’d hate to be the bearer of bad ulcers. You get me?"

"I suppose…I suppose I wouldn’t," Delphine replies, her voice faint. The girl’s grin lights her face all over again. 

"Excellent! Let’s not waste the breath, then. I’m Cosima. Kind of always jostling into people, by the way, so might as well accept a blanket apology now and call it a day." She tucks the staff beneath her arm, palm cutting smoothly through the air in front of Delphine. Blankly, Delphine accepts the shake. "Don’t take it personally, I just never had much of a talent for spatial awareness, even before the eyes went. Brain’s always up in the clouds. Or back in the lab. All the same, right?"

"I don’t—"

"Anyway, it’s not so bad," Cosima goes on cheerfully. "I’m a really rad poster child for what  _not_ to do while science-ing. Think Carol, but y’know, with way better hair.”

Delphine is staring at her, feeling distantly glad the woman can’t actually see the bewildered expression on her face. “You—”

"Yeah, yeah, chemicals go  _splash_. Whatever, man, water under that very old, kind of humiliating bridge. Mom says  _goggles_ , kid says  _goofy_ , and you wide up plodding along with a stick for the rest of your life. Very sad. You an undergrad or something?”

"No," Delphine replies, trying not to sound half as baffled as she feels. This girl talks  _way_ too fast, and keeps gesturing with her stick—except,  _gesturing_  mostly translates as  _nearly cracking passerby around the shins_ , and Delphine’s head is starting to seriously spin. “I just transferred. From, um—”

"France?" the girl suggests. "You sound French. And hella pretty. Are you? You don’t have to answer that, never mind. It’s been a long day, I’m a little goofed up on coffee. You like coffee?"

"Yes," Delphine manages, smiling despite her confusion. There is something unfathomably charming about this woman, with her long dreads and her splatter-patterned skirt. And her smile. She has a very nice smile. 

"Coffee’s great," she says. "I’d love to buy you some. A cup for the lady, as penance for the klutzy American nearly breaking her nose?"

"You don’t have to do that," Delphine assures her. "It was my fault."

"This is me thanking you, then," Cosima says, and leans conspiratorially close. Delphine finds herself leaning in to meet her, face still stinging from the force of her blush. "Don’t tell anybody, but I’ve kind of got this superpower."

"Oh?"

The girl nods furtively. “Totally. Can’t see a bastard thing, but my hearing? Top notch, dude. I mean, like you wouldn’t  _believe_. You want to know what I hear from you?”

Delphine is nodding for almost ten seconds before realizing, stupidly, that Cosima can’t see it. “Please.”

"I hear," Cosima says in a low, secretive voice, "a really cool chick who is  _totally_  gonna let me take her out for coffee. And maybe a muffin. How do you feel about baked goods, my French friend?”

"Delphine," she corrects without thinking. The girl’s face blossoms into, if possible, an even more enormous smile.

"That is," she says happily, " _just_ the name to suit you. Really. I do not tell a lie. That is one  _hell_  of a great name.”

All of which is how, rather against the odds, Delphine winds up on a date with Cosima Niehaus that cool October evening. 


	24. League Champ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fill for the prolethean/cosima-hella-niehaus Cophine-through-the-centuries 90’s prompt.

The chick in the faux-grunge flannel shirt is  _hot_.

Cosima has been stealing glances at her across the Y for the majority of her afternoon, in between snagging sweet-ass Pokemon at a master rate. Her thumbs are sore from jamming hard against the A-button on her bright green Game Boy Color, and her pride is at an all-time high. Take  _that_ , Elite Four. Not so elite,  _now_.

She glances up again, watching the girl with the cigarette tucked neatly behind her left ear, and wonders why no one is speaking to her. She’s unbelievably pretty, probably a year or two older than Cosima herself, and she is currently thumbing through a copy of Tiger Beat—which can’t be  _that_ interesting. Anyone could distract her, Cosima thinks. Absolutely anyone.

Her Game Boy’s battery is going to last  _maybe_  another twenty minutes, and that girl won’t be here forever.  _Caution to the wind, man._ She flicks her thumb across the off switch, unfolding herself with mild difficulty from the punctured red beanbag chair. If she vacates for too long, fuckin’  _Scott_  will zoom in with his shitty Sega—fuckin’  _Scott_  is the one who jabbed a hole in the thing in the first place, though he pretends not to know how it happened, because fuckin’  _Scott_  thinks he’s a Ninja Turtle or some shit—but whatever. Let fuckin’  _Scott_  have the chair. 

She stuffs the Game Boy in the back pocket of her baggy jeans, feeling them sink another half inch off her hips, and strolls coolly over to the foosball table in the corner. No one ever plays the stupid thing anymore; half the red guys stick, and there’s only one ball, because idiots like Sarah Manning keep hiding the extras.

(They’re probably all stuck up under one of the ceiling tiles, along with a fifth of vodka and Manning’s butterfly knife. Seriously, the security at the Y has gone  _totally_ lax.)

She leans her weight against the table, peering at the girl from under the brim of her battered Giants cap. “Hey.”

Uninterested eyes flick up from the magazine for a second. “Hi.”

"I’m Cosima."

The girl’s lips curve, her head shaking slightly. Even from this distance, Cosima can make out the smooth line of her stomach, peeking out from under her cropped t-shirt. Her heart slams against her ribcage. 

"I don’t mean to, like, mess up your ‘zine vibe," Cosima calls cheerfully. "I’m sure that’s crazy interesting and all."

"But?" the girl says, raising her eyes again, and she is  _definitely_ smirking. It’s the kind of smirk that makes Cosima’s blood pump a fever-rush through her ears. She could kiss that smirk into oblivion, given half a chance. 

"But, I’m bored."

"Tragic," the girl says, without a hint of bitterness. Cosima rolls her head on her shoulders, leaning back on her arms against the table. 

"Tell me about it. So, I was thinking, if I’m bored, and  _you’re_  bored—”

"I do not remember saying I was bored," the girl points out, though she has rolled the magazine into a tight tube, and is unfolded gloriously long legs from beneath her. Cosima grins.

"You’re wasting a whole Friday afternoon reading about  _DiCaprio_. Trust me, you’re bored.”

The girl hums acknowledgement, her eyes bright. “All right. What do you propose?”

Cosima gives the nearest handgrip a daring spin, and wiggles her eyebrows. The girl smiles. 

"Table football?"

"Football," Cosima repeats. "That’s cute. Wicked European of you."

"It is the price I pay," the girl drawls, "for my nationality. Are you any good?"

"Am I any  _good_?” She claps a wounded hand to her heart, miming a stagger that leaves her off on the blue side of the table. “You  _scar_  me.”

The girl merely raises an eyebrow. She pauses at the red side, experimentally twisting the stickiest handle. Cosima waits for her to yowl a complaint, or to accuse Cosima of setting her up, the way fuckin’  _Scott_  would do, but she only continues to wear that gentle smirk. 

"Name your terms."

"Terms?" Cosima considers it, scratching her jaw. Her wrist is an explosion of color, all beads and homemade W.W.D.D. ("What Would Darwin Do," she’d explained cheerfully to her bemused mother) bracelets. "Hm. How ‘bout…I win, you let me take you to a movie."

"And if I win?" the girl asks, never batting an eye. 

"You won’t," Cosima informs her, too chipper to sound truly arrogant. "Seriously, I’m sure you’re awesome, but I’m like…league  _champ_.”

_Plus, you’re on the red side. Hate to say I rigged it, but all’s fair in love and foosball with slammin’ girls._

The girl looks deeply amused now. “Humor me. If I win…”

"I will walk ahead of you into this place for a whole  _month,”_ Cosima swears, “announcing your mastery of me. Dudes will swoon at your feet, it’ll be excellent.”

The girl nods thoughtfully. “All right. Fair enough.”

Cosima grins again, setting her feet and rolling her shoulders back. “Cool. First to seven? Don’t worry. I won’t whip you too hard. We can even say it was super close, if anybody asks, just so—”

The ball goes skittering past her defenders so fast, Cosima’s brain can’t track it. The girl is watching her with calm eyes, her fingers loose around the handles on her side. She hardly looks like she’s moved at all. 

"Shit," Cosima mutters. She reaches up, twists the Giants cap around so the brim lays across the back of her neck. "Oh, it’s  _on_ , man.”

Ten minutes later, she is gaping at the girl in the flannel shirt, sweat trickling down the small of her back. Her hands are sore from her white-knuckled grip on the handles. The score is,  _believe it or not, friends_ , six-nil.

"You’re unbelievable."

The girl beams, tossing back her blonde hair. Her cap has been long-flung toward the vacated beanbag chair, and her cheeks are a light pink. “Did I forget to tell you? I am something of a  _league champ_  myself.”

She flicks her wrist once, and the ball bounds seamlessly past Cosima’s goalie. Cosima swears, but she’s grinning. 

"Jesus. So much for that date, huh?"

"Use your most eloquent words while describing my mastery," the girl advises. "I would like optimum swooning, please."

Cosima groans, leaning forward against the table. “Guess I deserved them apples, eh?”

"Very much so," the girl agrees. She slides around the table, pressing a light hand to Cosima’s shoulder. Her lips are soft, brushing the shell of Cosima’s ear. "You can pick me up at seven. I hear _American Beauty_  is to die for.” 

And then the cap is off Cosima’s head, tilted at a jaunty angle over the girl’s mane of hair, and she is swaying back to her seat and her magazine. Cosima blows out a breath, jerking an arm in an instinctive fist pump. 

"You got a name?" she calls over her shoulder, without looking. The girl laughs.

"Delphine."

"Next time," Cosima promises, still grinning like a rampaging moron, "I am gonna kick your ass, Delphine."

She tips a glance back to find the girl coiled neatly in her chair again. Her face is radiant with amusement. 

"I look forward to crushing you a second time."


	25. Pinned Ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Clearly, we need a sequel to the 90s fic where Cosima takes Delphine out to see The Lion King -nobody would sell her tickets to natural born killers because she looks fourteen. Delphine is cool with the lion king though and cries a bit into Cosima’s shoulder when Mufasa dies. Which would be fine if Cosima wasn’t already sniffling into her own sleeve. Later that evening, they go back to Cosima’s house where Cosima lowers the lights and puts some BoyzIIMen on the boom box. You know how she do.  
> Follow-up to League Champ.

”It’s Hamlet,” she stage-whispers, her breath tickling Delphine’s ear. “It’s Hamlet with fur.”

"Shush," Delphine replies. Her eyes are still a bit puffy; she’d gotten caught up in the whole bit with the dying father, and then again, with the baboon giving his Mr. Miyagi spiel. Delphine, it turns out, is kind of a crybaby. Which Cosima has absolutely  _no_  problem with. 

Though it’s an awful lot easier to be suave and comforting when you are not surreptitiously swiping snot onto your sleeve, because  _shit_ , that whole dead-lion thing was  _sad_ _._

This party would have been, admittedly, a little more fun if they’d been able to score tickets to something of the adult variety— _The Crow_ , or  _Speed_ , or something  _cool_ —but whatever. Cosima is perfectly aware of how small she is, all bird-boned and baggy-clothed. She’s lucky to have gotten in at all without  _adult supervision_. Which, seriously, would have harshed her mellow. 

_Probably thought the babe in the baseball cap was my babysitter_ , she thinks, a little sullenly, though her expression softens out when Delphine straightens up and beams at the screen. Simba is doing a marvelous job of standing up for himself, even in the face of a seriously gnarly uncle-type. Delphine, god love her, looks pretty proud of the little animated fuzzball. 

She’s still not a hundred percent sure what a girl like this is doing with her, but she ain’t knocking it. Delphine seems perfectly okay with her rangy-sly efforts to slide an arm around her shoulders mid-yawn, and even pressed her face to Cosima’s neck as she wept silent tears for the cut-down-in-his-prime James Earl Jones. It was a pretty great moment, gross baby tears (Cosima’s, mostly) aside. And, hey, maybe wouldn’t have gone down at all if they’d been watching Keanu steer a breakneck bus, so—good call, Ticket Guy Who Consistently Mistakes Her For A Fifth Grader. 

They sit through the credits, chatting amiably until the theater clears out. Delphine is refusing, point-blank, to return her hat, which she has paired with a bright floral sundress that should look  _toxic_ —and probably would, if not paired with her stellar choice in legs. Cosima is giving those legs a gold star, an A-plus, a pass to proceed straight to Go and collect its two-hundred smackaroos. 

She thinks she likes those legs even  _more_  when Delphine stretches them out, hooking them right over the seat in front of her without a care in the world for her dress. 

"You’re kinda shameless, huh?"

Delphine tips her a wink, letting the brim of Cosima’s cap fall over her eyes. Her hair roars out from underneath it on all sides, a glorious mane in its own right. Cosima watches her with hungry, happy eyes. 

"So? What’d ya think of the flick, Siskel?"

"Four stars," Delphine replies in her best haughty tone. It mostly just comes out in a just-woke-up rasp, which Cosima digs harder than ever. She makes a show of frowning. _  
_

"Only four? Where’s the fifth?"

"I did not care for the pig," Delphine tells her, and bursts out laughing almost before the words are out of her mouth. Cosima gives her a wounded glare. 

"Oh, come on," she complains. "Everyone digs the pig. The pig is, like, the company favorite!"

"Whose company would that be?"

"Mine," Cosima teases, standing up and stretching both arms above her head. Her t-shirt rides up over her belly button, and she can feel Delphine’s gaze swallowing her whole. Not bad. Not bad at all. "C’mon, champ. They start to get kinda cranky if you stick around to the next flick."

"Spoilsport," Delphine chides, but accepts the hand Cosima offers with utter graciousness. The air outside is warm and comfortable, finally slip-sliding into genuine summer. Cosima holds out her arms and twirls across the parking lot, pleased when Delphine jogs to keep up. 

"Not very healthy," she says, catching sight of Delphine carefully tugging her cigarette from behind her ear and cupping a practiced hand around her Bic lighter. "What would the lions say, Delphine?  _What would the lions say_?”

"Roar, I expect," Delphine replies, not missing a beat, and takes a long drag. Cosima watches the smoke tendril past her lips, slinking upward toward the evening sky, and feels her blood pound hot between her temples. Every last atom of her seems to be vibrating, glorious and golden, and when she swings a hand toward Delphine, her fingers sink into the other girl’s with perfect ease. She even likes how Delphine swaps the smoke to her free hand to grab for her, grinning back in the washed-out glow from the streetlamps. 

"Now what?" Cosima asks, cautiously keeping her eyes on the traffic rumbling sedately by. She likes the pulse of Delphine’s heart against her palm, thudding along at a comfortable rate. More than that, she likes the way Delphine’s arm has wound through her own, trapped between her inner arm and the curve of her body, as if simply holding hands was not enough. They move with a shambling grace, shoulders bumping, high-tops glancing off of high-tops with soft rubber squeals. She rolls her head back, watching the clouds flicker in long, smoky layers overhead, and wonders if it would be too much to suggest—

"Are your parents home?" Delphine wonders. Somehow, she makes the inquiry sound perfectly natural, perfectly  _innocent_. Cosima’s heart  _whams_  violently upward, sticking in her throat and wringing all but the barest voice out of her. 

"Um."

"If you do not want to," Delphine hurries on, sounding—for the first time—unsure of herself. "I’m not proposing—I mean, I just thought—"

Cosima squeezes her hand, grinning so hard her face aches. “It’s cool. It’s so cool.  _You’re_  cool.”

Some of the tension melts from Delphine’s expression. She raises the cigarette to her lips again, smiling. “I know.”

She looks  _strange_  in Cosima’s room, twenty minutes later. She looks taller somehow, outlined against Cosima’s posters, and the Star Wars diorama hanging from the ceiling above her desk, and the totally outdated (but still super sweet) green lava lamp. Taller, and gorgeous beyond reason. Cosima clears her throat. 

"So, I’ve got…kind of a lot of really  _bad_  music for this,” she admits. “Like—are you into Boys II Men? ‘Cuz that’s a thing. If you’re—”

Delphine has the sweetest silencing technique Cosima has ever seen, all smooth hands and soft tongue. It sort of doesn’t matter, that her CD collection is rancid, or that her lights don’t do that cool fade thing she’s always dreamed of. Delphine doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that.

Making out with Delphine—sliding her hands up her dress just far enough to get a taste of those unbelievably luscious legs, letting Delphine push her backwards until her thighs strike the bed frame and she goes tumbling down—turns out to be better than all the championships in the world. Better than juice boxes. Better than—

"You’re just a league champ at  _everything_ , huh?” she pants, straining to capture Delphine’s lips even when she tips playfully backward. “Hey—hey, c’mon, unfair—”

Delphine’s hands come down squarely on the center of her chest, pushing her down. Her legs are warm on either side of Cosima’s hips, and Cosima has just enough time to realize she is being  _straddled_  by the hottest of all hotties ( _Niehaus one, fucking Scott_ _ze-ro_ ) when she grins a devilish grin. 

"Pinned ya," she announces, calmly. Cosima contorts into a strange pretzel of hilarity, cackling. 

"You have got to be shitting me."

Delphine preens a little, tossing her hair. “One of us,” she says, “must be king of the jungle.”

"And who’s saying that’s gonna be  _you_?” Cosima challenges, reaching up to flick the baseball cap right off Delphine’s head. She prefers that hair free-flowing, anyway. “I’m pretty—”

The words freeze in her throat as Delphine arches her back. Her knees tense on either side of Cosima’s hips, squeezing,  _tempting_. 

"I think," Delphine all but purrs, bending to meet her with featherlight lips, "we can agree that  _one_ of us has been pinned quite well. And is not going anywhere. Is this so?”

Gulping, grinning, Cosima nods with an idiot glee.  


	26. For Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fill for the prolethean/cosima-hella-niehaus Cophine-through-the-centuries 40’s prompt.

”You are a soldier?”

She keeps her voice honey-smooth, honey-rich. It’s what the men like best: the sultry-sweet seductress, come to take them away from all their problems. In her bed, there is no danger. In her bed, no bullets. In her bed, there is only skin and heat, and the men like that.

This is no man.

The soldier smiles, distant. “Call it what you want.”

"You were with the soldiers," Delphine points out. "You fight." Her hands slide along the woman’s shoulders, pushing the olive uniform shirt back until it pools on the floor. "You fight for—"

"Freedom," the woman says, and crooks a smile up at her. There is exhaustion around her eyes. Even her skin looks tired, as Delphine bares it inch by inch. She winds gentle fingers around the woman’s wrist, scraping the flat of her nails lightly across deep blue ink. "I fight for freedom."

"But you are not free," Delphine points out. "You are hiding. They do not let women—"

"I was a nurse," the soldier explains. She allows Delphine to propel her backward toward the bed, the mattress bumping its welcome against the backs of her knees. "When they needed a nurse, that’s what I did, and when they needed someone to fix up the firearms when they got all goofed up, I did that. And when they need someone to let one of those Nazi creeps have it, I…"

She falls silent. Delphine allows her fingers to drift up the woman’s neck, thumb tracing the rat-a-tat race of her pulse. The woman tips her head willingly enough, and looks at her with far-away, tired eyes. 

"I don’t want to talk about this," she says, and her voice is more pleading than clipped. "Please. I just want…"

Delphine’s mouth is supple, descending in gentle, unhurried strokes. She guides the soldier back onto the bed, stripping her of clothing with hands that move almost too quickly to be followed. That’s the name of the game, she knows: quick and subtle. They never see her coming, as long as she kisses  _just_  this way, as long as she lets  _them_ lead. They never see her coming.

Except, this woman is not  _like_  them. She is not grasping Delphine’s hips, flipping her onto her back, not reaching between her thighs and angling herself into place, because there is nothing to reach  _for_. She gazes up at Delphine through lidded eyes, and brushes back the hair from Delphine’s face, and suddenly, Delphine is wondering if she wasn’t a bit hasty, plucking this particular soldier from the pack. Men are easy, after all. Men want to get theirs and get out. 

Women are…

The soldier cups one oddly-strong hand against Delphine’s jaw and eases up to brush a kiss across her lips. Her body is soft where Delphine is accustomed to tension, trembling where Delphine is accustomed to  _take charge_ , but there is a certain brazen quality to her kiss all the same. As if she has  _wanted_  this her whole life, and never quite found the strength to reach out and close her hands around the prize. 

She’s used to men grabbing for her, having their way and taking a powder, but this woman is slow. Gratifyingly so. She lifts up from the bed, all brushing fingertips and lingering tongue, and it is somehow  _Delphine_  taking the lead. Delphine, settling between her thighs, testing the woman’s skin with the slow drag of fingernails down a soft belly. Delphine, pausing to kiss every pock-mark, every scratch, every scar.

"You do not talk about war?" she whispers into the soldier’s breast, and feels fingers in her hair. 

"Can’t say it’s how I get my kicks."

"How  _do_  you get your kicks?” Delphine asks softly, and sighs when the soldier pulls her up into a sweetly scorching kiss. The hand on her hip is tentative, hopeful. The woman angles up, pelvis sliding against Delphine’s bare skin, and she makes a strangled sort of noise low in her throat. 

She needs to hurry this along, she knows. It’s easy business, getting notes out of a man; her hand moves in gentle, jerking strokes, her body folding him in and in until he bucks and spasms, and then he is all too willing to sing. Men are easy. Women are…

She finds herself  _enjoying_ it for the first time in much too long. Enjoying the hitching breaths the woman takes, hands guiding Delphine’s rocking hips. Enjoying the way the woman bends and molds around her fingers. Enjoying the breathless giggle—men rarely giggle, not with a woman like her, not when they’re paying good money to get their rocks off—the soldier releases when Delphine sucks at her earlobe. She’s enjoying it—and when the woman clutches around her fingers, sticky with want, her breasts clapping softly against Delphine’s, she enjoys  _that_ , too. Very much. Perhaps too much.

_Don’t forget why you’re here_ , she reminds herself, even as the woman rolls her over and stares down at her with eyes gone unexpectedly bright.  _Don’t forget why—_

"You don’t have to do that," she tells the soldier, smiling. The woman studies her, quietly tracing a thumb across the bridge of her nose, along the bow of her lips. 

"Does anyone ever?"

Delphine’s brow tightens with puzzlement. “I do not—”

"Take care of you," the woman clarifies. "Does anyone ever?"

"I do not usually take women to my bed," Delphine tells her, and feels foolish for doing so. This isn’t why she’s here. Intel. Intel, and ease, and taking care of business, that’s all this—

"I’d like to," the soldier says, and she is sliding down the bed, her hands firm and calloused on Delphine’s thighs. "I’d like to, if you’re keen. Are you?"

_Keen_  is not the word, Delphine thinks, as the woman kisses her, and her body takes the wheel.  _Keen_ is very much not the word for any part of this. Foolish, to take a woman. Foolish, to deviate from the system. Foolish, to let  _this_  woman in particular into her bed. Her legs part of their own accord. She worries she will shimmy right out of this skin, if the soldier goes on kissing her this way, her tongue rolling, her breath sliding out of her in quick pants. 

She’s getting nothing out of this woman, and  _everything_  out of this woman, and her voice is cleaving midnight air as she presses both hands to her lips. This is no man, no; this is  _dangerously_  unlike a man, to buy a woman and rain pleasure upon her.  _Dangerously_. She is getting nothing out of this woman, and her skin is too hot to bear, strung tight across her bones, and the soldier is lapping at her, experimental and giddy, and she is—she is—

The woman remains in her bed for a long time after, letting her fingers trace mindless patterns on Delphine’s skin. The men always go and blow, but this woman props her chin on one hand and watches Delphine carefully. 

"You like this gig?"

"It is necessary," Delphine says flatly. The woman smiles, humorless.

"Yeah. I get that postage. You know I killed a man today?"

Delphine looks at her for a long moment, trying to reconcile the woman whose lips had burned so wonderfully on her skin with the one miming a quick shot. It seems impossible. 

"I’ve rubbed out more men than—" She shakes her head. "It’s bad news, is all I’m saying. War. Can’t say I see the charm."

And Delphine  _knows_ , for ill and for certain, that she will get no news of the American plans from this woman. Nothing to carry back to her superiors. Nothing to please Leekie. A man would have been easy. A man would have been good.

A man would not kiss her this way, sweet and wanting. A man would not ruin her. 

_Whatever happens now_ , she thinks, disconsolate,  _it is on that singular decision. I chose this woman. I chose her._

She lets Cosima fall asleep in her bed, and thinks,  _This simply will not do._


	27. Summer Cliches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt prompted: Cosima’s parents are rich—and Cosima’s parents have a French maid.

”You know you have a French maid?” Sarah Manning says suddenly, tendrils of smoke still clinging to her lips. “A French. Maid.”

"My parents," Cosima corrects. "Not me."

She exhales a plume, letting her legs kick over the arm of the sofa. Sarah snorts.

"You live here, too."

"Only in the  _summer_.” Cosima lolls her head back, feeling very pleasantly stoned in the July heat. “Anyway, don’t talk about her like that.”

"Like what?"

"Like she’s just some— _thing_ , y’know; she isn’t. She’s French, and she’s a  _cleaning woman_ , but that doesn’t make her, like, some walking sex stereotype.”

"Like you wouldn’t dig it if your folks threw one of those classic uniforms. The white and black jobbies, barely cover the tits? Shiiiiit." Sarah waggles her eyebrows and tilts around in Cosima’s father’s armchair, hooking her Doc Martens over its back and letting her long hair brush the carpet. "C’mon. You want her, yeah?"

"You are," Cosima laughs, "the  _worst_  kind of feminist.”

"Oi, watch your mouth." Sarah flicks a bit of carpet lint up at her. "I’m a damn fine feminist. I just do what the fuckin’ boys do, and call it a day. Ain’t that what you rich-bitch book types call  _equality_?”

Cosima just laughs, shaking her head. “It’s not my fault my parents are rich. I never asked ‘em to hire a cleaning lady, either, but—”

"If you are displeased with my service," a woman’s voice says from the doorway, "I will be happy to make my way back out."

Cosima rolls, hurriedly shoving the joint out of sight. Delphine is smiling, her face bright and beautiful in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling window. Cosima grins back, ignoring Sarah’s groan.

"And  _that_  is my cue.”

"No, no," Cosima protests, but Sarah is already somersaulting out of the chair.

"S’pposed to meet Fee." She taps Cosima’s knee. "Don’t do anything I’d do in a million fuckin’ years, yeah?"

Delphine gives a brief wave as she shoulders past, wrinkling her nose as soon as Sarah is out the door. “She does not like me very much,” she observes. “Why is that?”

"She’s kind of a bitch," Cosima says, shrugging. "Not even sure she likes me most of the time, so much as my wicked stash of—" 

She freezes on the word  _grass_ , but Delphine is already laughing. She has a sweet laugh, resonant and warm, and when she crosses the room in clean khaki shorts and a tank top, Cosima hurries to sit up as fast as her sluggish head will allow. 

"What are you—"

Delphine plucks the joint from her loose fingers, holding it up. “And what is this? Cosima Niehaus—a  _stoner_?”

"Hey, hey, gimme—"

Delphine places the joint between her lips, taking a long hit, and hands it back. She lets her head fall back. Cosima stares. 

"Pretty sure that’s again the whole cleaning-professional code," she says wryly, trying to disguise the spastic thrumming of her heart. Sarah’s voice sneers in her head:  _you have a French maid_ —and suddenly, she is visualizing Delphine’s thighs, hips, breasts, straining against a tiny corset and skirt. She shakes her head, pushing her glasses up on her nose.  _Shit._

"Are you going to tell?" Delphine asks. She brushes the hair back from her face. Cosima chokes on a laugh. 

"Shit, no. I mean, can’t have dear old Mom and Dad terminating your employment. I’ve just gotten used to you cleaning up my underwear."

"I’ve  _never_  touched your underwear,” Delphine laughs. She braces an elbow on the back of the sofa, fingers forming a steeple against her temple. Cosima shrugs.

"No? Guess that makes me the cleanest party under this roof."

"So long as you are not doing experiments," Delphine teases, "this is almost certainly true."

"My experiments," Cosima says cheerfully, "are the best thing about me."

"Mm. Perhaps not the best." Delphine’s lashes are dark, her eyes steady. Cosima’s mouth drains of moisture, her body pushing into a forward lean without thought behind the action. 

"Yeah?"

Delphine’s shoulders bob once. She is smiling, but there is something hesitant about it—as if she is considering something which, once decided upon, can never be taken back again. 

_It would be a totally bitchin’ cliche_ , Cosima tells herself, even as she lifts her chin and meets Delphine’s gaze.  _Rich little college girl, spending a summer boinking the French maid. Yeah, right. Dad’ll love it._

Except Dad isn’t here, and Delphine is biting her lip the way Cosima’s seen her do over and over, whenever she is thinking hard about something, and…and…

"Sorta stoned," she whispers, her lips half an inch from Delphine’s. "Sorta totally stoned."

"I can," Delphine starts to say, starts to lean back, starts to look concerned, and Cosima is wrapping a hand around the back of her neck. 

"Not that stoned."

_Making out with my French maid_ , Cosima thinks, high as high can be, and knowing the weed is only partially responsible.  _Making out with my French maid. Far-fuckin’-out._

It is going to be, she thinks giddily, pressing herself against Delphine as a meteoric thrill rockets down her spine, one hell of a hot summer. 

 


	28. Professional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prolethean asked you:  
> i know stahmatarr just submitted something similar but ohhHHHHHHHHHH MY GOD POOLBOY COSIMA AU IT’S SUMMER AND HOT AND SHE’S HOT AND SHE’S SCOOPIN DR. LEEKIE’S POOL BUT HE’S NEVER HOME IT’S JUST HIS FRENCH GIRLFRIEND WHO SHE /SWEARS/ IS GIVING HER THE EYES

”Woah.”

She lets her arm swing down by her side, her head tipping back to take in the full expanse of the manor. Because, yeah, man,  _manor_  is the word. Like Wayne. Like  _rich_. 

Bagging this job might well have been the greatest fucking left turn in history. 

The duffel bag is packed with the few belongings she’ll be needing for the summer months: shorts, tanks, books. Over her left shoulder slings her laptop case, so she can get a little  _real_  work done when she’s finished skimming pools for The Man. 

In this case, it’s the bald science-man, the one who had clapped her on the shoulder after one of his lectures and said (with surprisingly little skeeve in his tone), “I’ll be away most of the summer. If you’re looking for a little extra cash flow…”

Any other creepy old bald dude said that, and Cosima would be  _flipping_  for the hills, but Leekie is a Highly Credited Scholar, and he’d just finished listening to her in-depth theories on bio-enhancements, and what’s really wrong with cleaning a dude’s pool while he’s flitting around Europe? It’s not like she isn’t hard-up for the extra green. School is expensive, and there’s no open lab position for the summer semester anyway. 

She’ll just work on her tan a little, line her wallet, and call it a day by September first. 

And his place is  _huge_. The kind of huge that means mowing will take the better part of the day, and the hedges span the length of a short football field, and she actually gets to stick around on-campus, as you please, in a nice little guest house out back. It’s a dream come true for a girl who’s been slaving the retail hours just to furnish her textbooks. 

Now, staring up at her summer vacation, she finds herself grinning. No customers. No PA systems. No slavishly licking the boots of idiot overlord managers. Just her, and the Leekie Manor.

Yeah. Cake.

***

She just about kills herself dragging the mower out the first day. Mowing lawns back home was one thing; her parents had a piddly-ass little stretch of green, and she could knock that shit out of the ballpark in the hour after lunch. Mowing lawns here is…well…

"Seriously, bro, you don’t even have a riding mower?" she mutters, heaving the surprisingly old-school machine out of Leekie’s equipment shed. It’s a piece, and a rich old bastard like him ought to be royally ashamed, but whatever. A lawn’s a lawn, and it’s a gorgeous day. 

A gorgeous day in June.

A gorgeous  _hot_  day. 

She’s panting before she’s halfway through the front lawn, her bike shorts sticking to her thighs, her tank top tied haphazardly above her navel. She’s pretty sure she’s going to puke on the next pass, and the scientist in her pipes up with an ever-so-gentle rebuke:  _Nice work, numbnuts. Who does gross manual labor_ at high fucking noon _?_

"You’re going to kill yourself, working this way."

The shriek that strips itself from her throat is not particularly prestigious, and when she whips around, her brain goes socking against the left side of her skull almost hard enough to put her on the ground. She is facing a tall, willowy woman with a mane of aggressively  _great_  hair—a woman who is smiling, and holding out the world’s tallest glass of water.  _Fuck it_ , Cosima decides,  _unless she’s a goddamn mirage, I’ll take it._

"Thank you," she gasps, accepting the glass and downing a third of it in a single gulp. The woman’s brow furrows. 

"That does not seem wise."

"Thirsty," Cosima assures her, and then bends double and nearly pukes up her guts right there on the grass. The woman edges nearer, looking concerned. 

"You are going to give yourself sunstroke, you know."

"Yeah," Cosima grunts, "got it. Sorry. Thanks."

"Drink  _slowly_ ,” the woman advises, and she’s so damn pretty, Cosima can’t help but nod and lift the glass to her lips again. “That’s better, yes. You are the pool girl?”

"Cosima," she says, trying to inject a little professional-grade cheer into her voice. "Leekie’s got me living out at the—"

"Guest house, yes," the woman says calmly. "I’ve seen your light on."

"Yeah?"  _Little creepy, but again—bangin’ girl._ "From where, exactly? You his neighbor?"

She feels heat creep up her neck as soon as the words leave her mouth, because,  _what neighbors_? Blissfully, the woman only smiles. 

"From the house. Delphine Cormier. I am Dr. Leekie’s…assistant."

The hesitation is only half a second’s worth, and in that beat, Cosima understands everything. Her eyes go wide, her legs tilting an automatic step backward.

"Oh my god, you’re his mistress."

To her credit, Delphine Cormier hardly winces. “No, nothing like that.”

Cosima raises an eyebrow. “I mean, not that it’s any of my business, but unless you’re his granddaughter or some shit, I’m gonna have to call party foul on  _that_  statement.”

Delphine gives her a long, steady once-over. Cosima bites down on the inside of her cheek, mentally chanting,  _Fired, fired, I am so fired, Jesus._ At last, the woman shrugs her shoulders.

"Perhaps it was like that once, and perhaps it will be again. For now, he is in Sweden, and I am my own agent. Fair enough?"

"Totally fair," Cosima babbles. "Totally, supremely fair. Christ, I’m sorry. Sunstroke, right? Gets the best of a good brain."

Delphine only smiles, turning back to the house. “Be careful,” she says, by way of a parting remark. “Keep hydrated out here. I would hate to have to pick you off the lawn on your first week.”

Cosima leans her weight against the push mower, watching the easy sway of the woman’s hips as she makes her way up the lawn. “No kidding,” she mutters, and from then on, straps a water bottle across her hip while cutting Leekie’s patently  _ridiculous_  crop of grass. 

***

She likes the pool best, she thinks. Not only is it massive and sparkling, she can always just leap in if the heat starts getting to her again. Which the heat pretty frequently does. This has got to be the hottest damn summer on record. 

Which, in and of itself, has its perks.

She’s leaning over the skimmer, hoping she remembered to put sunscreen on her shoulders this time (she  _thinks_  she remembers lathering up, but she maybe got a little distracted by imposing some Darwinian theories on her latest paper idea, and she never can tell until it’s too late), when the back door to the manor slides open. Her eyes zip instantly to Delphine, making her way down the three stone steps in a bikini top and cutoff shorts, and  _damn_. That is one fine-ass French woman. 

"Hey," she calls, waving. Delphine drops a pair of sunglasses on her nose, lifts a hand in return, and smiles broadly. It’s always that same smile, Cosima has determined, like she’s genuinely  _excited_  to see her each day. 

_Probably just thirsty for company_ , she thinks, retrieving a particularly large leaf from the otherwise gleaming pool water. Still, she can’t help but grin, reaching down and tapping the play button on her iPod again. Her ears fill with a Summer Beat Mix—mostly techno jives that work for just about any season, if you aren’t picky—and her hips begin instinctively to roll in time to the music. Delphine settles herself on a lawn chair with a paperback copy of something Cosima can’t make out from here, and it’s just lazy days, man. Lazy  _hot_  days. 

She bops along for almost ten minutes before she feels the blistering pressure of eyes following her around the edge of the pool. Her head ducks, her smile smug. 

"You’re staring," she calls, popping one earbud out. Delphine gives a lethargic little wave, holding her book up higher. 

"I’m reading."

"Yeah, maybe using the eyeball you’re not strokin’ me with." It still gives her a rush, even three weeks later, to be so goddamn cheeky with this woman. Any minute now, Delphine could decide—as the veritable woman of the house—she’s over Cosima’s sass and chuck her out on her butt. Any minute now. 

_Annnny minute._

"I am  _reading_ ,” Delphine repeats, the left side of her mouth quirking up. “But if you insist upon interrupting, come make yourself useful.”

The skimmer is on the ground in an instant, Cosima trotting merrily over to the chair with tiny, exaggerated puffs of breath. Delphine lowers her book and raises her eyebrows, the picture of gorgeous sun-bathing grace. 

"Sunscreen?" Cosima asks hopefully, and somehow doesn’t care that she sounds about as eager as a horny sixteen-year-old. In terms of Delphine Cormier Moments, lotioning up her back falls lower than just about  _nothing_. 

_It’s all lotion, and her giving me the ain’t-you-somethin’ eye, and this is really shaping up to be the best summer_ ever. 

Delphine shifts sideways on the chair, allowing Cosima access to the smooth plane of her back, and Cosima cheerfully dollops sunscreen across her shoulders. She counts freckles as she works, moving her thumbs in slow, gentle circles. A knot here, a tension lock there; she smooths them out, one by one, smiling to herself when Delphine groans very, very softly.

"You are in school for this?" Delphine wonders, as Cosima trails her fingertips lightly down the ridges of her spine. "You’re very good."

"Uh, no. This is a superpower. I’m studying evo-devo."

"Evo—oh, I see." Delphine sends a faint smile up over her shoulder, her brow tightening when Cosima presses her thumb into an especially tight knot. "Mm. This is very kind of you."

"My pleasure," Cosima tells her, without an ounce of sarcasm, and swears to herself that, come hell or high water, she is getting this gig  _every_  summer.

***

Delphine is one hell of a great swimmer. 

Of course, in Cosima’s book,  _one hell of a good swimmer_  mostly boils down to  _doing laps without making me stop gardening long enough to save your hot ass_ , and in this arena, Delphine gets the gold. On her knees in soft dark soil, Cosima plants, and weeds, and waters, and all the while, her eyes dart continually back toward the pool. 

_Cormier has got it goin’ on._

She watches the smooth strokes, Delphine’s hands cutting elegantly through crystal water (not a leaf or stone in that pool, no sir; a job done to perfection this morning). Delphine’s legs, shapely and far, far more holy than a human woman has any right to be, kick in long, strong measures. Cosima finds herself rocking back on the heels of her high-tops, staring unabashedly. 

If Delphine minds this, she hides her feelings marvelously, and Cosima thinks that’s perfectly fair. After all, wasn’t it Delphine stealing sexy glances from beneath her lashes just yesterday afternoon, as Cosima swam lengths for an hour? And isn’t it Delphine who  _always_  seems to come out to greet her as she’s mowing, lower lip caught between her teeth as she offers a fresh glass of lemonade?

Yes sir, if Delphine’s gaze is magnetic, Cosima is sheer metal, and she doesn’t think she’d take it any other way. 

"You Olympic or something?" she calls, the next time Delphine surfaces. The woman shakes back her hair, spraying sun-warmed drops every which way, and favors her with an amused smile. 

"No, no. Immunology. I swim for joy alone."

"There can be Olympic immunologists," Cosima teases, pulling up a tough weed and casting it aside. "I’m, like, 94% sure."

Delphine flicks droplets at her and goes under again, all push and pull, her shoulders strong beneath the rippling water. Cosima watches her hungrily, memorizing the flex of her biceps, the point of her toes, the casual way she tilts her head above the surface to draw breath. She could be some kind of red-hot mermaid, Cosima thinks cheerfully, and sends Delphine a totally cheesy thumbs up with sod-coated hands on her next surface. 

Delphine in a bikini—that sight will surely haunt her dreams until she kicks it right off the skin of this world. 

***

Delphine inviting her to dinner the first week of July comes as something of a surprise. Part of the deal with Leekie was that Cosima would purchase her own groceries, and make use of the humble, though perfectly nice, kitchen in the guest house, and she’s been sticking to this religiously. Still, she hasn’t been one to deny Delphine yet, and if Delphine says it’s okay…

"I feel so weird, being in here," she says, rocking back a little in one of the ornate mahogany chairs. Delphine smiles from the kitchen, her hands occupied with chopping vegetables for a festive-looking salad. 

"You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you out of shorts."

Cosima looks down at herself, bright skirt and dark top, and shrugs with zero self-consciousness. “I do own legit clothes, you know. I’m not  _all_  slovenly gardener-chick.”

"A pity," Delphine says, rather playfully. She pushes out from around the counter, her sundress billowing up and settling gently back into place as she crosses to the stove. Cosima half-rises from her chair, making curious gestures with the hand not gripping its back. 

"You want help with that, or…?"

"Sit, sit." Delphine flaps a hand at her, bending to examine the pasta simmering in a great silver pan. "It’s just about finished. Do you like wine?"

"Totally," Cosima agrees, pushing away from her chair. "But let me, seriously. I don’t really groove on being waited on."

Delphine steps agreeably aside, allowing Cosima free reign of the cupboards. She selects two crystal glasses and a bottle from Leekie’s rack, making her way back to the table at a cheerful little jog. 

"This is amazing," she’s saying less than twenty minutes later, inhaling pasta just slowly enough to not be  _totally_  horrendous company. Delphine beams. 

"I enjoy cooking. I find it’s wonderfully like chemistry, don’t you?"

"Absolutely," Cosima laughs. "Except I’m kind of a wrecking ball at chemistry. So I guess that explains all the ramen cups in my life."

"It just takes patience," Delphine assures her. Her hand slides across the table, blanketing Cosima’s. Her thumb presses lightly to the space between Cosima’s own thumb and index finger, stroking back and forth with such intimacy that Cosima’s breath stalls in her lungs. 

"I’m, uh. Not really known for that."

"Patience?" Delphine wrinkles her brow thoughtfully. "I would think a scientist is always patient. Watching, and waiting, obsessing over all the finest detail. Evo-devo does not require this?"

Cosima inhales with some effort, turning her hand under Delphine’s until their fingers are laced, almost automatically, together. Delphine’s palm is smooth against the callouses from the summer’s work, her nails trim and painted a deep burgundy. Cosima finds herself staring down at their joined hands for a long moment, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. 

"I’m really more of an instant-gratification kind of girl," she says distantly, and feels the light press of Delphine’s ballet flat against her ankle. That pulse in her head slams along at a fresh clip, and she raises her eyes to find Delphine’s burning bright across the table.  _  
_

"Perhaps patience can be learned," she suggests in a low voice, and Cosima thinks,  _Shit—I’m going under._

***

What began as gentle banter seems to have segwayed naturally into something an awful lot like  _foreplay_ , and Cosima finds herself unable to sleep properly. She is up late into the night, tapping away at her laptop, and wakes at sunrise each morning with Delphine’s smile imprinted on her eyelids. The days are growing, impossibly, hotter with every passing week, until the air is molasses-thick with humidity, hanging heavy in her lungs as she goes about her work. And Delphine is…

_Really_ , really not making this easy. 

It isn’t  _professional_ , Cosima reminds herself, to want the boss’ girl. Ex-girl. Maybe-someday girl. Whatever Delphine is, she is living in  _Leekie’s_  house, and that ought to mean something. 

Ought to. Maybe in some reality other than this one, where dinners are becoming a nightly deal, where Delphine watches her with predatory sharpness as she dances around the pool each day, where Delphine’s hand is beginning to fit with birthright ease in her own. Ought to is looking more and more like a thing of textbooks. Cosima is  _living_  this experience. 

And her loose grasp on patience is starting to  _seriously_  let out. 

It’s all in the slide of Delphine’s fingertips across her own as she offers those customary glasses of lemonade. It’s in the lingering pressure of Delphine’s hip, pressed to her own as she leans over to show Cosima something in her book. It’s in the flush of Delphine’s cheeks each time Cosima rubs sunscreen into her shoulders, and the arch of her back as she stretches to reach around Cosima in the kitchen. It’s everything. 

It’s driving her  _insane_. 

Still, she thinks she’s doing a pretty great job of keeping Leekie’s yard clean, and of not totally mucking up her relationship with the disconcertingly hot Delphine Cormier in the process. Mostly. 

A week before July goes crashing headlong into August, she breaks every rule she had left.

***

It is  _unbearably_  hot. Wickedly, disgustingly,  _revoltingly_  hot. Even standing so near the pool, Cosima feels she is going to melt away, a puddle of dreadlocks and tattoos sinking into the brick. Sweat is pouring down her back, and her hands, tight around the skimmer’s metal pole, are on fire. She groans. 

"This is ridiculous."

Delphine, feet dangling over the edge of the pool, leans back on her hands and shrugs. “You’re the one executing manual labor.”

"I’m a  _professional_ ,” Cosima tells her witheringly. Delphine arches a brow, lifting one long leg out of the water and letting it sink back again with a splash. 

"You’re a doctorate-seeking college woman, and, once again, you are attempting to kill yourself via sunstroke in my presence. Will you just come  _over_  here?”

Cosima watches a trickle of sweat wind its way between Delphine’s breasts, her jaw slackening, and she sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

She settles herself on the pool edge, her skin just about hissing as her legs breach water. She moans, leaning back in mimicry of Delphine, and lets her head roll back on her shoulders. 

"Yeah, I take it back. You’re def the smartest person here."

"I suspect that was always true," Delphine says mildly, and reaches over to pluck at Cosima’s tank top. "What is this? Black? Are you  _trying_  to—”

"Professional," Cosima sing-songs, feels mightily proud of herself—at least until Delphine, smirking, plants a hand in the center of her back and shoves.

She goes sprawling into the pool, tumbling under and nearly losing her glasses entirely in the process. Spluttering, she kicks to the surface and glowers at Delphine, who only shrugs. 

"You feel better now, don’t you? See, I’m only after your own good."

"Eat me, Cormier," Cosima snorts. She wraps both hands around the slim muscle of Delphine’s calves, stroking her fingers up to the bend of her knees—and then jerks, delighted when Delphine releases a very French oath, and winds her arms reflexively around Cosima’s shoulders. 

"That was rude."

"Yeah, well." Cosima gestures down at herself, her free arm sliding instinctively around Delphine’s waist. "You pushed me in in my clothes, so. I’m just sayin’, we may be even stevens."

Delphine’s brow creases, but she’s grinning, her mouth unbelievably pink in the sunshine. For a moment, they’re simply gripping to each other, each smiling stupidly. For a moment, things are perfectly okay.

And then Cosima realizes her  _arm_ is around Delphine’s waist—Delphine, who is clinging to her for dear life, her fingers toying with a single dreadlocks, and  _fuck. Oh, fuck, this was a bad idea._

"Should…probably get back to work," Cosima says, her voice low. Delphine’s forehead brushes her own, her skin white-hot. Unthinkingly, Cosima splays her hand across the small of Delphine’s back, tracing the base of her spine with the nail of her index finger. Delphine sighs. 

"Are you in some great hurry?"

"Trying," Cosima replies, turning her forehead gently against Delphine’s and letting her gaze flicker to her lips. "Not, uh. Terribly successfully, it seems."

"No," Delphine agrees, scratching the nails of her left hand up the back of Cosima’s neck until she shivers. "No, not successful at all. Do you remember that conversation we had that night, about patience?"

"Yeah."  _Christ._ Her toes push lightly against the tile floor, her body bobbing on a fragile wave. Delphine’s legs press tight to her own, obstructed only by a flowy bit of silk wrapped around her waist, and by the red-and-black print of her bikini. Cosima’s throat clenches around her next breath, choking it off. 

"I’ve been giving it a lot of thought," Delphine says, her voice ragged. Her lips are nearly brushing Cosima’s, her right hand skimming up to cradle her jaw. "And I believe you are right."

"Usually am," Cosima murmurs, sifting a hand up into Delphine’s humidity-tousled hair. She can feel the stiff clutch of sunscreen and sweat, matting down soft gold, and her stomach performs a slow roll. Delphine breathes against her lips. 

"It’s overrated."

Later, Cosima won’t remember who closed that final second’s gap between them. Her head is too full of how  _fierce_  Delphine’s kisses are, her lips parted, her tongue brazen, and how  _good_  she tastes. Her hand grips at Delphine’s waist, feeling the surging water coast across her skin, even as Delphine slides both legs around her middle and presses clean against her belly. Suddenly, she is regretting the shorts, the tank top, the  _everything_  that is not sweet skin. Suddenly, she is wondering how  _professionalism_  ever found its way into her life. 

The sounds Delphine is making against her send her heart surging in a violent tattoo. Her hands bury themselves in Delphine’s hair, her hips jerking fruitlessly forward. Delphine sinks a few inches, until they are groin to groin, and Cosima groans into her mouth. Delphine pulls away, raining maniacal kisses down her cheeks, across her sunburnt nose, down the exposed length of her throat. She is exuberant, wanton, her hands roaming across Cosima’s breasts, and belly as though she has never touched another person before, and is hungry to make up for lost time. Her fingers pinch down on nipple, her palm pressing rough circles, and Cosima rucks against her hard enough to pin her body against the pool wall. 

There are no words for this, nothing but the fever escalation of Delphine whimpering when her fingers jerk loose the tie of her bikini top. Nothing but the sense of true euphoria, as she rucks her own sodden tank up over her head and flings it off toward the garden. Nothing but skin to skin, but Delphine kissing her in broad, open strokes that leave her tingling straight down to the core. 

She spins Delphine, pressing her brazenly against the wall, feeling Delphine’s curves socket against her own, and then she is tonguing across Delphine’s shoulders, suckling at the base of her neck, cupping one breast in a tender rhythm even as her hips buck sharply against Delphine’s backside. Delphine makes some delicious sound that might well be  _French_ , and might well be her name, and might well be nothing at all but the furthest stretch of  _want_. Cosima kisses her shoulder, rotating a hand around between Delphine and the wall, and tucking her fingers neatly beneath the waistband of Delphine’s swimsuit. 

Delphine lets her head fall back with a thump, nuzzling against Cosima as she gasps and jerks, riding skilled fingers. Cosima buries the urge to laugh, stroking her with a quickly mounting rhythm, and thinking,  _Best summer. Best summer of my life. Best summer of—_

Delphine’s hand winds around, clutching at the back of her skull, her hips pumping ecstatically. Cosima kisses along her back, feeling the sun-baked water roil and splash around them, and it is  _definitely_ her name Delphine is saying now—crying it, gasping it, laughing it out into the muggy heat. Cosima bites down gently, pleased when Delphine stiffens, contracting around her, and then comes shuddering down again. 

"Fucking in the boss’ pool," she pants against the smooth arc of Delphine’s shoulder. "Pretty naughty."

"You’re right," Delphine says hoarsely. "Very inappropriate. Don’t know what I was thinking."

She turns in Cosima’s arms, mouth swollen, hair askew, and slides both arms around her neck again. She is tall, and graceful, and looks very thoroughly pleased—but not satisfied. Not by a long shot.

"Would you like to see my bedroom, Ms. Niehaus?"

_Best summer of my fucking_ life _,_ Cosima crows inside her head, and kisses her, kisses her, kisses her as the sun beats down. 


	29. The Extra Mile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> AU prompt: single mother!Delphine (probs Leekie’s kid because reasons) and science teacher!Cosima.

Jack Cormier’s mother is, excuse the expression, a  _red-hot_   _babe_.It actually sort of makes Cosima uncomfortable, watching the woman stride into this classroom which has been her primary domain for the past three years. Most mothers are not  _red-hot._ Most mothers are, at best, a well-meaning fifty-five degrees. 

At worst, they are ice-cold holy terrors, and Cosima finds herself slipping Tootsie Pops into their children’s hands for the simplest correct answer, because no ten-year-old should have to deal with  _that_. 

Still, just because she is hot doesn’t mean she’s automatically chill, and Jack is…not Cosima’s most apt pupil. A meeting with so many variables—hot, relatively young mother of a tense, irritable boy whose dyslexia is so ferocious, it sometimes takes him two whole hours to complete a simple quiz—is her worst nightmare. Particularly on a Friday evening. This week has been too long for words. 

_One more_ , she promises herself, straightening from her chair and extending a handshake across her desk.  _One more, and then a weekend to breathe._

"Ms. Cormier, nice to meet you," she says, relieved to hear no strain of the old adolescent,  _oh no, she’s hot_  Cosima in her own voice. The woman clasps her hand gently, but firmly. 

"Dr. Cormier," she corrects, "but please, call me Delphine."

"Doctor, huh?" Cosima shifts around the desk, bracing her weight against its edge. "That’s impressive. I thought I’d head down that way, once upon a time, but…y’know. Kids."

She shrugs, as if to say,  _it’s out of my hands._ Delphine Cormier smiles, but there is something skittish in her eyes. The mark of a single mother, Cosima recognizes, who suspects her child is toes-over a very specific sort of failure. 

"But we’re here to discuss Jack," she says, following the proper route the meeting is meant to take. She gestures toward the nearest child-sized desk, and feels automatically foolish. If it bothers Delphine, she does not let it show. She merely sinks obediently into the seat, looking outrageously long-legged and concerned. 

"He is not doing well?"

"He is…" Cosima hesitates, taking twenty seconds to scan this woman over. Her hair is clean, but rumpled, as if she has been running too long to remember what it feels like to stand still. Her cheeks are flushed, her clothes fashionable, but not particularly expensive. This is a woman, Cosima senses, who has been told  _no_  all her life, and carried on anyway. This is a woman to be respected at least as much as Cosima already respects her son. 

"He is definitely trying," she says at last. "Ridiculously hard, even. I see kids with his work ethic maybe once every couple of years, you know? It’s amazing, the kind of drive a fifth-grader can have."

"But?" Delphine prompts gently. The webwork of tired lines around her eyes pull at Cosima’s heart unexpectedly. She sighs.

"But it’s rough on him. I watch him every day, and most of the time, he’s frustrated before I’m even a third of the way into my lecture. Just trying to follow the slides, his attention gets kind of…obviously slippery."

Delphine nods gravely. “He is failing?”

"Nuh-uh. No way." Cosima’s hands dance before her body, struggling to snatch the words out of the air. "No, not failing. Jesus, he’s a smart kid, y’know? Super smart. Doctor for a mother, I can’t say I’m surprised."

"He gets it from his father," Delphine mutters, not looking remotely pleased. Cosima skids past this. She’s seen enough single parents—mothers  _and_  fathers—whose former partners have very little happy impact on their lives. If they get on that subject now, they will likely never return to Jack. 

"It’s not that he’s not smart, or even not focused enough," Cosima goes on patiently. "It’s that he’s  _frustrated._ Like, he’s got all the right thoughts bumbling around in his brain. He just can’t get ‘em lined up right. Like when the words get all tangled up on the page.”

"How am I—" Delphine takes a breath, steadying herself. "How would you propose we carry on? Another special ed class?"

The weight of that word— _another_ —sits between them for a moment. Cosima watches the beautiful woman’s brow tighten, her jaw clenching. This is a woman, she realizes, who has been told time and time again that her child is  _wonderful_ —but not quite wonderful to fit in with the crowd. A woman who hears that often enough begins to build armor against the world.

"I’m going to suggest," Cosima says carefully, "something a little radical. For this program, anyway. My old school, we did stuff like this all the time, but this place is pretty, uh. Straight-laced."

Delphine says nothing, but there is a slight lean in her posture now, her eyes bright and wary.

"If you’re up for it," Cosima says, "and if Jack’s cool with the idea, I’d like to set up a tutoring schedule. One on one, just me and him. I get the sense that he could be totally into science—science the way  _I_  teach it, anyway—if someone gives him half a chance to really grasp the concepts. No kids around to snicker or cause trouble, you know? I could come by your place, if it’s convenient, or the library, if that’s easier. Maybe three times a week?”

"Three times a week," Delphine repeats, and there is a genuinely bewildered note in her tone. "You’re an elementary school teacher, Ms. Niehaus. Aren’t your hours heavy enough?"

"A good teacher never sleeps," Cosima teases, recklessly throwing in a wink for good measure, and realizing too late that it is probably a terrible unwise gesture for this setting. Delphine smiles. She clears her throat. "Uh, anyway. I think it would be really good for him, to get a hands-on approach to the whole thing. I could set up some simple experiments. Maybe the shift in imagery would stick with him, help him muscle through his tests a little easier. What do you think?"

"I think," Delphine says slowly, "that you are the very first teacher I have ever met who genuinely embodies the profession."

Cosima flushes pleasantly. “Hey, don’t throw me on the market just yet. I haven’t shown I’m worth my salt.”

"Could you start Monday?" Delphine wonders. "I could give you the address now, and I could—I could arrange my schedule, to be home in time. Unless you think that would be distracting?"

_Very likely—but not for Jackie-boy._ "I think that would be fine," Cosima tells her warmly. "I’m really looking forward to this Ms.—Dr.—Delphine. I think it’s going to be great for him."

Delphine looks at her with eyes which are suddenly very bright. “Monday,” she repeats. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Cosima has never seen a woman look quite so grateful in all her years of teaching. She just hopes, as Delphine slides out from behind the desk, grips her hand again, and leaves behind a sheet of notebook paper with her information looped across its width, it works. Jack is a really good kid. Really good kids deserve someone to go the extra mile for them. Sometimes, just knowing there’s a person out there who will  _try_  is enough to turn a whole school career on its head.

_And if it makes his mom smile, well. That’s just a great neon bonus, isn’t it?_


	30. Patience, Encouragement, Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Terrible driving student Cosima and terrified driving instructor Delphine.

Brakes really shouldn’t make that  _screeeee_  noise. Kind of ever. 

Cosima glances sideways, catching a glimpse of mask-like serenity and blonde hair, and bites her lip. “Uh. That counted as gentle, right?”

The instructor gives her the sort of smile that suggests she  _isn’t_  currently thinking of fifteen ways to evacuate this vehicle before the light turns green (which would be patently untrue, but also, patently against the teacher’s code of  _patience, encouragement, compassion_ ). “Perhaps,” she says thinly, “start stopping a bit earlier next time?”

Wincing, Cosima tightens her grip on the steering wheel and keeps her eyes fixed on the light. The minute it shifts to green, her foot comes down with bone-breaking force on the gas. Delphine Cormier jerks back in her seat. 

"Sorry! Sorry. Just. My dad gets honked at all the time."

_Like father, like daughter_ , Delphine thinks, and hopes Cosima can’t see her right hand bunched around a grip on the door. In the span of thirty minutes (still another thirty to  _go_ , god save her), Cosima has committed the following first-driver infractions: 

Failing to notice a stop sign.

Failing to brake before whipping around the corner of a subdivision. 

Failing to brake  _at all,_ despite an oncoming flock of geese. 

Failing to display even a  _modicum_  of awareness as to how a vehicle actually works. 

"You—you’re going to have to—Cosima, the limit is only thirty-five."

Her voice hitches up on the last syllable, as Cosima narrowly avoids colliding with the back bumper of an SUV. “Thirty-five?” she asks, sounding genuinely uncertain. “What was I going?”

"Fifty."

"Oops."

The thing is, she does  _like_  this girl. She liked her in the classroom, her legs sprawled awkwardly underneath her body as she answered questions and made charming small talk. She liked her handwriting on the quizzes, all loops and spirals. She even liked her in the parking lot this morning, extending one bracelet-jangling hand and squeezing Delphine’s, her head tipped to the side, her bright teeth gleaming in a grinning mouth. 

She liked Cosima right up until the moment the girl clicked her belt into place, adjusted her mirrors with the haphazard efforts of someone who has never touched a rearview in her life, and stormed out of the lot at breakneck speed. 

Delphine is only playing instructor for the summer, until her sophomore year of college begins. She certainly had no intention of being killed in a car wreck before September. 

"So," Cosima says, turning her head a bit too far to the right to give Delphine comfort of any kind. "Tell me about yourself. You’ve been trapped in this car with me for, like, an hour already, and you’ve barely said three words."

She doesn’t sound put off by this in the least. Delphine reaches over, plucks the hand resting over the center console, and places it neatly onto the wheel at the “two” mark. She hopes Cosima will take the hint, and slide the other hand to “ten”, rather than letting it hang loosely over the top of the wheel. Cosima doesn’t. She sighs. 

"Eyes on the road, please, Cosima."

"Right, right." Her gaze snaps back to the task at hand, resolute. "My bad. So you’re from France?"

"Yes."  _Brake, brake, please brake._ "I came to—the States—for university—"

"Do you always put those long pauses between your words?" Cosima wonders, turning her whole body to peer at Delphine. 

"You are," Delphine grits out, trying to smile and remember  _patience, encouragement, compassion,_ "making me nervous."

"Oh, shit. Shit, yeah, okay." She glances back toward the road just in time to veer into the next lane, missing a bus. "See? Totally in control. I got this."

"You forgot to signal."

"Oh, yeah. That’s a thing."

Delphine privately wishes she had chosen a different occupation for the summer—perhaps a nice job at the water park, or bagging groceries. So far, this job has won her a full-scale understanding of Broadway theater, courtesy of the tight-fisted young woman with a violent case of road rage, the company of twin sisters who spent more time bickering over the radio than actually watching the road, and…Cosima. Who is lovely, and charming, and Delphine is beginning to understand how the girl could be eighteen and still lacking in her license.

"You’ve tried this before?" she asks, a bit breathlessly, pressing her right foot down  _hard_  on the floor mat in a pantomime of control. “Your driving test?”

"Twice," Cosima hums. Her right hand is flickering off the wheel again, drawing lazy circles in the air, snapping the radio on, and then off again. She can’t seem to sit still for more than a minute, and when her body twists toward Delphine again, her face is radiant with amusement. "They didn’t even let me take the written the first time, can you believe that? And they wouldn’t let me out of the parking test my second time around. Jerks."

"Did you really do that poorly?"

Cosima winces, an  _oops, yeah, fair enough_  expression. “I  _may_  have hit the instructor while backing in. Just a little. He was totally okay, though!”

Delphine has a vision then, of this young woman’s future. A vision of coffees spilled, and eyeliner carelessly applied in freeway traffic. A vision of cluttered backseats, papers spilling under the brake pedal, fluttering out of open windows. A vision of trance music pumping, of Cosima drifting off at stoplights, disappearing into her own private world. She cringes. 

"Have you considered," she says slowly, "perhaps trying a bicycle?"

Cosima gives her a slightly indignant smile. “Hey, I can get this. I skipped three grades altogether, I think I can figure out how to operate a vehicle.”

_Yes_ , Delphine agrees silently,  _but can you determine how to do this without committing vehicular manslaughter in the process?_

Cosima is looking at her with hopeful, slightly nervous eyes—which means, again, she is not looking at the road. Delphine stretches over, gently pulling the wheel to the left to avoid them crashing into a mailbox. 

"You think I can do it, right? Like—I’m not a total lost cause?"

She ought to say no. She ought to remove herself from this vehicle right now, save both of their skins, and tell Cosima a bus pass really is the cheaper route, anyway. She ought to. 

_Patience, encouragement, compassion._

"I believe in you," she says, allowing her hand to retreat back to her bouncing knee. "We just have a bit of work to do, is all. Some…habits to unlearn."

Cosima beams. “I can do that. Totally. Yeah. What’s the first step?”

Delphine blows out a breath, struggling to remain calm. “ _Eyes on the road_ _.”_

_“_ Right. Yeah. Gotcha.”


	31. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Waitress!cosima (who’s totally charming obvz) comforts patron!delphine, who has gotten into a fight with her bf.

”Coffee?”

There have been smoother opening lines, of course. There have even been smoother offers of caffeinated beverages; she’s on her eleventh hour of work, her feet are aching, and she feels as though her brain has been largely replaced with chocolate pudding. Still, the woman nestled in this booth has been looking progressively more downtrodden all night. And she has been alone. Cosima is of the mind that no one should look  _that_  sad and  _that_  alone at the same time. 

She nests her hip against the table edge, bending a little to look the woman in the eye. “Maybe tea’s more your style? Mountain Dew? I can getcha anything you need, really. Just say the word.”

The woman looks at her with bleary, red-rimmed eyes, and Cosima thinks she  _must_  have been even busier than she’d realized, not to notice this beautiful woman crying in her section. She frowns, sliding her order pad back into the pocket of her black apron. 

"Something you wanna talk about?"

There’s no earthly reason for this woman to tell her  _anything_ ; she’s barely even bothered to order in all the time she’s been sitting here, nursing a glass of water and a basket of mostly untouched fries. Maybe she doesn’t like talking. Maybe she’s just having a miserably fuck of a day. One way or the other, it isn’t really Cosima’s business. 

She plops down across the table, folds her elbows across its pitted, scored surface, and waits. 

"I can leave," the woman says uncertainly. "If you need the table…"

"I’m not rushing you out," Cosima tells her, waving a dismissive hand. "I’m checking in. S’what we in the industry like to call  _being a decent human specimen_. Which, I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess your…husband? Boyfriend? Either way, I’m guessing he kinda flopped in that respect, huh?”

_Tactful_ , she thinks with dim disapproval. Her feet are killing her, and she’s pretty sure she’d be misspelling her own name, given half a chance. That she’s even sitting upright just now is a goddamn miracle. Her struggles with social interaction can’t really be helped. 

But no  _way_  is she leaving this poor girl on her own, one way or the other. 

"Boyfriend," the woman whispers, making the word sound impressively cold. It flutters between them like a discarded napkin, settling in the space between the woman’s phone and Cosima’s bent elbow. "He…we…argued."

"Was supposed to show tonight, huh?" Cosima gives her a sympathetic smile, trying not to think too hard on the abrupt plunge her stomach always takes at the realization that yet another pretty girl is unavoidably straight. "Bet he gave you a pretty shit reason for bailing."

"He didn’t," the woman says, smiling rather bitterly. "He did not give me a reason at all."

Cosima raises an eyebrow, impressed at the audacity of a man she’s never met. “Woah. Cold shit.”

Delphine’s brow furrows. She shakes her head. 

"I mean, just cutting like that, with no explanation. Like he just…opted out?" She leans across the table, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Y’know, I know a guy. If you wanna have him…"

She draws a finger across her throat, making a strangled sound from between her teeth. The woman almost looks amused. 

"I was thinking I would begin with simply breaking up with him."

"Right, yeah, that’s good. Much less drastic. You can lull him into a false sense of security, or whatever." Cosima smiles at her, pleased when the woman smiles back. "I’m Cosima, by the way. I know I probably said it when you got in, but, honestly, I’m having trouble remembering past the last half hour."

The woman tips her head. “Long night?”

"The  _longest_ ,” Cosima agrees. Then, remembering there is a difference between providing a distracting and mindlessly drawing attention, she corrects herself. “But we’re talking about you.”

"Why?" The woman crooks a tight smile toward her. Cosima considers the question. 

"Because you look deeply, deeply miserable," she says at last. "And no woman with hair like yours ought to look that way. Not in my section. This is the  _party_ section.”

"The party section," the woman repeats. Cosima nods sagely. 

"What, no one told you? Assholes. I specifically asked them to keep every patron apprised of the situation. Alison’s section is for the hoity-toity suburban types. Sarah gets the slackers who might shift off their bill. Helena is, under no circumstances, allowed to leave the kitchen. And I get the party animals. Those are the rules. Very important."

She waits for the woman to lean back, looking displeased, or even scornful. She’s having a bad night. She’s entitled to that sort of expression. 

Instead, she tosses her head and presses her weight against the table. Her eyes are still sad, but they seem to have brightened a fraction. Cosima considers that a small win, if nothing else. 

"I’m gonna get you a coffee," she decides, pressing on while she’s ahead. "And a complementary  _fuck that dude if he can’t see what he had_  dessert. How do you feel about pie?”

The woman tells her, a bit shakily, that she prefers apple, but isn’t directly opposed to cherry, and Cosima scampers off toward the kitchen. Granter of wishes, is Cosima Niehaus—even tonight, with three hours of overtime stuffed under her belt and the powerful urge to fall asleep on the prep counter weighing her down. The woman is beautiful—and lonely—and sad. Cosima can muster a little extra energy, in light of all that. 

"A la mode," she exclaims, thumping the plate down a few moments later. "That means  _with ice cream_.”

"Yes," the woman says, looking genuinely amused now. "It does."

The thick accent is not lost on Cosima, who sinks back across the booth and beams at her. “Pie works wonders on a messed-up heart, man. It’s been scientifically proven.”

The woman slices off a hunk of crust and fruit with the edge of her fork. “By whom?”

"Eh, details." Wagging a hand, Cosima bites back a yawn. The woman frowns. 

"You look very tired. I hope you don’t mind me saying so."

"Nah, pretty sure the word you’re looking for is  _walking dead_. Well. Two words. Short phrase. Rad TV show.” She wrinkles her nose, then shakes her head. “Anyway. Been a hell of a night. Three grease fires back there. Can you believe it?”

The woman looks surprised. “I never noticed.”

"Well, no," Cosima agrees. "You weren’t meant to. Fires are Helena’s deal—she makes ‘em, and she puts ‘em right back out again. Helena’s…her own breed. But nobody was ever in any danger."

_Mostly_ , she adds, privately deciding there wouldn’t be much point in explaining how  _pissed_  Beth had looked when Alison’s arm wound up singed by that last flare-up. A pissed-off Beth on a crazy night like this one, when they’re already shorthanded—Manning called off  _again_ , which explains her sister’s reckless behavior—is no fun at all. 

"Anyway. We’re talking about you."

"I thought we were talking about pie." The woman is chewing in slow, deliberate strokes, as if her body is performing a habitual one-act even as her mind twists away from this table. Cosima shrugs. 

"Six of one, half dozen of the other. Or something. Is it helping?"

"The pie?"

"Yeah. Like, I know it doesn’t  _totally_  wipe away the shitstorm of a break-up or whatever, but—it’s something, right? Tasty, at least?”

When the woman hesitates, staring down at her plate, Cosima inwardly cringes.  _Whoops. Break-up was not the right word._

"Better say yes," she adds, too quickly. "I made that myself, you know."

"Did you?"

"Well…not from, like, scratch. But I  _did_  slice it. And put it on the plate. And that ice cream action? All me.”

The woman stares at her for a few seconds before her smile cracks through the dull glass of her unhappiness. Cosima releases a silent breath of a relief. 

"You are quite strange, you know." Motioning with the fork, she adds, "Try some."

"Nope. That is your pie, on me. Well, not  _on me_. But on my, uh. Dime. Two-fifty. Whatever. You like?”

"Very much," the woman admits, quietly. She reaches over, settling cool fingers around Cosima’s wrist. "Thank you. You are very kind."

"On top of being hella strange," Cosima jokes. The woman lifts and drops her shoulders, as if to say,  _what can you do?_ "Well, hey, glad to help. I don’t like to see a lady in distress. Or, y’know. Abject misery."

She’s four steps away from the table before swiveling on her heel. “Hey, one thing.”

The woman, still wearing that distantly unhappy expression, but with a fresh forkful of pie nearing her lips, looks up. Cosima rubs the back of her neck. 

"What’s your name? ‘Cuz I was thinking, hey, if you need a partner in crime to go egg his house—or just to take your mind off of shit, y’know—I’m…pretty wide open. I mean, I’d like to maybe catch a few hours of shut-eye first, but I’m off the next two days. Beth promised, after this hell shift."

_If you wanna hang out_  lingers between them, mostly unspoken. Cosima feels a little derpy about it, honestly, but the woman doesn’t look obscenely put off or anything. She’s almost smiling again. 

"Okay," she says, and digs a scrap of paper from her purse. "That would be nice."

"The egging, or the chilling?" Cosima teases. The woman scrawls her name and digits on the page. 

"I have not decided," she admits. "But I’ll be sure to let you know. Thank you again."

It isn’t  _precisely_  a dismissal; more a gentle liberation. Cosima walks from the table with more spring in her step than she’s felt since the halfway point of this shitty shift, the paper with Delphine’s handwriting looped across its breadth burning a hole in her pocket. It isn’t the best thing, maybe, to take pleasure in another person’s pain—but shit, if that idiot had actually appreciated his girlfriend, Cosima might never have met her. 

She gets the feeling, somehow, that this would have been a tragedy of Grecian proportions. 

_Coffee_ may not have been her best line—but it was certainly better than saying nothing at all. 


	32. Dedication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Heyy! Love you writing! I got a cophine prompt for you: Cosima runs every morning in a park where Delphine always sits at the same place reading a book or studying. They exchange looks until one day Cosima decides to give Delphine her favorite book (you can choose which one). Feel free to add fluff and whatnot :)

Running is, like, the least enjoyable thing in the world. Not kidding. Actually the worst. She’d flat-out refuse to do it if not for two very small, very important factors. 

Factor one: living with Beth Childs, whose lifelong dream is to run from one end of a county (she hasn’t exactly settled on which country yet, but it is definitely going to be a Decent-Sized One) to the other, means running. Period. If she wants breakfast, she’d best be running. Bacon is not for the slackers in life, Beth says. 

Factor two: it’s a really damn nice park. 

She guesses she ought to count herself lucky; Beth doesn’t require her to run with her—that is, alongside her long, stallion-strong legs, her easy breaths making Cosima feel all the while as though she is about to develop spontaneous exploding-lung syndrome—in order to get her morning meal. Beth only needs her to put on a pair of shorts, tie those gym shoes tight, and do her very best. That’s all Beth asks of anyone, really. Cosima likes that. It’s one of the few things she genuinely does like about her girl scout of a roommate, who cleans her dishes, and folds her towels—but also glares like Cosima is doing friggin’ witchcraft any time she lights up a joint. 

But, a lease is a lease, and again—Beth has some solid taste in parks. 

And so does…

She tries not to stare as she puffs her way past the bench beside the duck pond. It’s painted bright blue, that bench, and the paint is peeling, and the peeling paint seems not at all to have put off the young woman who makes a place for herself upon it each and every morning. She tries not to stare—and maybe doesn’t always do such a bang-up job. The woman is gorgeous. 

And brainy, it would seem, or (at the very least) literate. Cosima appreciates literacy in her women. Literacy, and the drive to get her study on at seven in the damn morning. It’s wildly impressive. 

Also, gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that’s difficult to process, even standing still, much less as you’re stumble-dragging yourself through dew-dampened grass with a stitch in your side. 

She should have told Beth Childs she had asthma, day one. That would have been genius. 

For weeks, Cosima has been fumbling over an opening line for this woman. You’re too pretty for words is weird, and I want to have your beautiful blonde babies is creepy, and she’s pretty sure even the smartest woman in the world would run screaming if Cosima just stopped and started rattling off the genetic triumphs of her physical existence. She manages, at best, to catch the woman’s eye most days, and wiggle her fingers in a fly-by hello. Which the woman returns, pleasantly enough, with a smile. It’s a lovely smile. If she’s honest with herself, that smile has a lot more say over whether or not she makes it to the park each morning than Beth’s bacon-sizzling skills. 

"You could, I don’t know, talk to her?" Beth says one day, charging up behind her with a fairly overzealous, On your left! Cosima grits her teeth, regretting her decision to bring Beth along to her Captain America midnight viewing, and shrugs. 

"I don’t wanna intrude."

"Whatever you say," Beth replies. "Your form still sucks, by the way."

And then she’s gone again, before Cosima can scrape together enough breath for a hearty screw you, Childs. 

The idea sounded pretty tragic when falling from Beth’s lips, but Cosima finds herself unable to let it go. Which is how, on a Thursday morning, with sweat pouring unattractively down her forehead, slippery on her back, she finds herself running with a copy of Origin of Species under her arm. 

Idiot, she thinks, more than half-expecting the woman to be entirely absent from her bench. Which she is…

Not.

Her left foot snags on a small rock, nearly betraying her whole body straight into the duck pond. Arms windmilling, Cosima manages to catch herself on a sapling, The woman looks up. 

"Are you all right?"

Oh sweet merciful klutz, she’s French. "Beautiful!" Cosima replies, too loudly. She cringes. "I mean wonderful. I mean acceptable. I’m acceptable."

The woman gives her a polite, rather uncertain smile. “You’ve dropped your book.”

"So…I have," Cosima mumbles. She is feeling suddenly asinine, in her borrowed Adidas shorts and the stupid sweatband Beth will glare at her over until she slides it around her forehead. This is so not how you meet women. 

"It’s actually," she says, as she’s fumbling in the grass for the book and her dignity in equal measure, "not my book. Well, it is. But I didn’t bring it for me."

"No?" the woman asks, looking as puzzled as she is amused. "You do not make a habit of running with literary security blankets, I’ve noticed."

"You have?" She brightens. "I mean, you’ve—you have?"

"I think I would remember," the woman tells her calmly, "a woman who runs with books under her arm at daybreak."

"Shit, yeah, fair point. I, uh." Too far to go back now. Any second, Beth is going to come tearing around the pond, on your left-ing for all she’s worth, and this woman will be left with an impression of Cosima-the-lunatic for all of time. “I actually brought it for you. Sorta. If you’re interested.”

"In your book."

"Yeah—I mean, hey, it’s not my book. I didn’t write the thing. I just…it’s one of my favorites. I figured, since you’re always devouring things with pages and, uh…words..on those pages, maybe you’d dig it, too.” She holds it out, flapping it within arm’s reach of this woman who is now looking at her like she isn’t quite sure how to proceed. 

"I have read it," she says, once she’s gotten a clear view of the cover. Cosima deflates. 

"Oh." Then, shoulders pulling back, breath stealing back into her lungs. "Oh. You’ve read Darwin?”

"He is not particularly fringe,” the woman points out, with just enough spark to send Cosima teetering from teenage awkwardness to genuine delight. 

"Of course. Of course, it’s just—are you evo-devo?"

"Immunology," the woman replies, and extends a hand without hesitation. "Delphine."

"Cosima. You mind if I…?"

Delphine sweeps her notebooks onto her lap, never batting an eye. Cosima plunks down beside her, still breathing in rough gasps. 

"Thanks. I mean, I shouldn’t. If I want bacon, I gotta do a full lap before my roommate’s ready to hit the road, but—"

"Bacon?" 

"Yeah, yeah, crazy-ass roomie really appreciates, y’know, fine-tuning a body before destroying it with fatty animal products. Go figure." She grins, gratified with the woman grins back, albeit with some reservation. 

"You could, perhaps, make your own bacon? That way, you would not have to go for a jogging each morning."

"Maybe I like my joggings," Cosima retorts, laughing with the woman’s eyebrow jerks toward her hairline. 

"I’ve watched you. You only smile once, in all the time it takes you to circle that pond."

"Yeah? When’s that?" Flirting, it turns out, comes just as easy as it ought to, even sweat-stained and hopped up on outrageous adrenaline. This woman, this Delphine, makes it all too simple when she smiles. 

"When you wave hello. You always smile, then."

"Well," Cosima says, "you’re always here. That deserves a smile. I mean—it’s dedication, right?”

The woman laughs, her shoulders shaking, her face growing pink. Cosima tips her head curiously. 

"Did I make a funny?"

"No, no, it’s just—may I share with you a secret? I know we’ve only just met, but…" Delphine brushes the tips of her fingers across her mouth, as if clearing away residual amusement. Cosima leans forward, elbows across her knees. 

"Please."

"It’s only—I mean, this is a very pleasant park. A lovely view. But, I—" She’s even prettier, blushing this way. "A runner should have motivation, I think. Someone to wave them on? Your roommate does not seem…designed for this task."

"Trust me, she’s not. Her best friend is this guy, like twice her size, and she just runs circles around him with her fingers doing that nyah nyah thing next to her head.”

Delphine’s forehead crease. “I…don’t think I know it.”

"No?" Cosima demonstrates, palms out, fingers waggling like a pair of moose antlers on either side of her head. "She’s a total—"

She pauses, the words sinking in. Delphine is still smiling, still blushing, her hands opening and closing against her skirt. Cosima’s mouth drops open.

"Hang on—you hang out here every morning to be my cheerleader?”

"I’m fond of the pond, too," Delphine assures her, almost defensively. Cosima bends forward, her forehead hot against her folded arms, giggling. 

"Oh, yeah, totally. Great pond. You’re serious?"

"Are you bothered?" She looks genuinely concerned. "I could always stop. Or find another place to study, it isn’t a problem—"

Cosima lays a hand over hers, stilling her. “Delphine,” she says cheerfully, “you can be my cheerleader as long as you like. One condition, though.”

Delphine leans forward slightly, still looking pleasantly embarrassed. “Of course.”

"You have got to let me bring you some bacon.”

Beth can’t understand, for the life of her, what her lunatic roommate is cackling about when she reaches that park bench four minutes later.


	33. Run With Me (Through Rows Of Speeding Cars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> Heya! Me again. Another prompt for you. It’s late at night and Dr. Cormier is driving home from a monster shift at the hospital, when this skater girl in dreadlocks appears out of no where and gets hit by her car (who else but cosima would skate at night) cosima acts tough and says that she’s fine when she’s actually in hella pain, cause she doesn’t want to worry this gorgeous woman. But Delphine knows better. Possible patch up scene?

Doctors are responsible. Doctors are mature. Doctors are capable of keeping their eyes open the whole way home; no excuses, no exceptions. Even after the worst shift in the history of the hospital, a doctor is cautious. Careful. Not inclined toward causing bodily harm. 

Her foot is on the brake pedal a split second later than it needs to be, and merde—this is not doctorly at all. 

"My god!" she is gasping before her feet strike pavement. "My god, are you all right?"

She’s never actually hit someone before—never even been in an accident of the fender-bender variety, much less something of this nature—and she thinks she might just pass out from the shock of that sound. That metal-on-flesh sound. That thank god I was only doing twenty sound. 

The girl on the ground is dressed in four shades of clashing neon, has a backpack still slung across her chest, messenger-bag style, and is looking up at her with wild doe eyes. She looks, to Delphine’s trained eye, like it’s the shock threatening to pull her under, more than any physical pain. She also looks—

"Are you insane?” It’s not the most sympathetic response she could have, probably, but Delphine can’t help herself. The girl’s skateboard has zipped across the street, half-lodged in the gutter. The girl was skateboarding well after midnight. All the neon in the world doesn’t make that a wise decision. 

"Are you actually victim-blaming," the girl says, her voice rather cheerful under the flat cast of her surprise, "the chick you ran over with your car?”

Delphine’s mouth opens and closes several times, her twenty-eight-hour-conscious brain sputtering. The girl, groping along the asphalt for her glasses, sends up a bright smile. 

"Easy, Earnhardt, I’m kidding. I totally should have been watching myself. Is your car all frigged up?"

"I…" Delphine shakes her head slowly, clawing at the last vestiges of rationality. She needs sleep. She needs sleep, and to hydrate, and to not be hitting college students with her moving vehicle. “Are you all right?”

The girl seems not to hear her. She is sitting up rather slowly, one hand feeling around at the back of her head. Her face contorts in a wince, one eye crooked shut beneath the now-lopsided tilt of her glasses. 

"Shit, y’know what? Scratch the idea that dreads double as a helmet. Not my best theory."

"You don’t even have a helmet?” Delphine is growing more exasperated with every word that tumbles from this girl’s mouth. Her unwitting victim shrugs, still probing the base of her skull with twitchy fingers. 

"I mean, I did. Do. Somewhere. Trust me, you ever get a glimpse of my place, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It is tragic.”

"Are you," Delphine begins a final time, injecting a little more concern into her tone. The girl did crack her head on the ground; it’s very likely she isn’t so much insane as mildly concussed just now. But, before she can finish the question, the girl is wagging a hand at her. 

"Yeah, yeah, I’m deeply functional. Help me up?"

She extends her elbow, hand still pressed to her head, and Delphine pulls her gently to her feet. Her hands are already moving before the girl is steady, angling her arms this way and that under the pithy streetlamp glow. The girl looks at her with, somehow, greater uncertainty than when she was actually struck. 

"Um. Whatcha doing?"

Delphine meets her gaze, feeling only marginally embarrassed. Gingerly, she turns the girl’s arm until a long, raw scrape is on display. Chunks of gravel are plainly embedded into the bloody streak of flesh. The girl winces again. 

"Ah, shit. Yeah. That’s, um. Gonna leave a mark."

"Let me take you to the hospital," Delphine suggests. "Please, it isn’t far, and it’s the least I can do."

The girl snorts. “Why, ‘cuz you knocked me over? I’m fine. Believe me, I can take a licking and keep on—”

She stumbles, arms windmilling for balance. Delphine grasps her under the less damaged elbow, concerned. 

"Please. You need to be checked out."

"Mm, no, no, I’m good. I’m totally—totally dizzy, actually, but otherwise, I’m sterling." Her smile is bold, infectious, and not fooling anyone. Delphine begins herding her gently toward the car. 

"You are, at the very least, in need of disinfectant and a bandage. I’d also like to take a look at your reaction time, your wrist, your—"

"What are you, some kinda doctor?" the girl jokes. Delphine glances down at herself, her dark scrubs beneath a zip-up sweatshirt, and meets her gaze. Somehow, she is more embarrassed when the girl’s eyes widen. 

"Oh, shit, really? What are the odds, man?”

"Terrible, probably," Delphine mutters, gratified when the girl only argues long enough to retrieve her board from the gutter in which it fetched up. She doesn’t bother turning back toward the hospital; the girl (Cosima, she says in a voice almost too cheerful to be real) keeps repeating things like really, I’m peachy-keen, and medical insurance is not my strong suit this year, and, anyway, her apartment is only minutes down the road. There are plenty of bandages in her medicine cupboard. 

"You live here?" Cosima asks wonderingly, letting Delphine propel her gently into the apartment. "Shit, a doctor’s salary is pretty tight, huh?"

"Tight?" Delphine repeats, amused. Cosima’s nose wrinkles, a crease appearing between her brows. 

"I plead the head injury. Which is, seriously, not a huge deal, by the way. Not the first time I’ve taken a knock to the noggin."

"Do you make a habit of being struck by automobiles?" Delphine wonders, half-expecting the girl to shrug and nod as they enter her small, clean bathroom. She presses Cosima lightly down on the bathtub edge, shifting to scrounge beneath the sink for her first aid kit. 

"I make a habit of forgetting to check the clock at the library," Cosima says, hardly bothering to look sheepish even as Delphine settles upon the closed toilet lid and begins working bits of gravel out of her marred arm. In the fluorescent lighting, Cosima looks paler than Delphine had imagined, her eyes dilated beyond what they should be. A concussion, Delphine decides, though she is perhaps too exhausted to be making any sort of diagnosis. Now she’ll have to stay up with this vibrant young woman, convincing her to visit a doctor who hasn’t been engaged in high-priority patient work for…

"Hey. Hey, are you okay?”

Her eyes jerk open, her shoulders wrenching back until her spine nearly pops. Cosima is leaning forward, looking worried. 

"I mean, I know I’m the one who got popped, but maybe somebody ought to be checking you out, too?"

"I’m…tired," Delphine admits. She restrains herself from spilling out the whole grueling day: the patients who aren’t doing well, the families who can sense this, the sense of utter fatigue and failure that has been trailing her since well before she even stepped through the hospital doors. This girl doesn’t need a rundown of her day. She needs ice, and Tylenol, and perhaps a pamphlet on safe riding techniques after sundown. 

"You should sleep," Cosima decides, moving as if to stand. "You should sleep, and I should go. Seriously, I’m fine. Just a scratch. Wasn’t like you were barreling or whatever, right?”

"Sit," Delphine instructs, relieved when the girl obeys, despite her disgruntled expression. 

"You’re kinda the worrywart type, huh?"

"I’m kind of the type who picks up after her messes," Delphine corrects. "I—"

"Dozed off at the wheel and didn’t notice the lunatic boarding and debating nature/nurture at the same time," Cosima finishes for her. "Yes, I’ve been following along. Come on, don’t torture yourself on my account. We both got off amazingly easy on what could have been a really fucked up night. Let’s just agree to toast our good fortune and let it roll, okay?”

Shaking her head, Delphine resumes mopping dried blood from around the girl’s torn arm. There appears, at least, to be no structural damage to her bones. In all actuality, even the scrape is not half as bad as it could—or maybe even should—be. Cosima has a point about good fortune. 

"I’m sorry," she says. "I am. Truly. For hurting you."

"I’m sorry you’re wasting so much time being sorry," Cosima quips. Her free hand moves to brush Delphine’s knee lightly, her gaze surprisingly solid, despite the blown pupils. Perhaps her head is not as shell-shocked as Delphine had thought. "I’ve got a thick skull, and I’m not exactly freaked by blood. We’re good. Seriously.”

Delphine considers her for a long moment. “I am getting you an icepack,” she decides at last. Cosima blows out a breath, but she’s smiling. 

"Fine."

"And you are staying the night," Delphine continues, trying to ignore the mischievous way that smile broadens. 

"Oh, are we gonna play it like that, Doctor?"

"I," Delphine says, almost too loftily to take herself seriously, "will sleep on the couch."

"Nope," Cosima replies instantly. "Nope, nope, no way. You look like you haven’t seen the backs of your own eyelids in a week. And I am, as previously mentioned, totally cool. I’ll stick it out, but if you’re on the couch, I’m taking the floor under the couch, and that just seems silly for everybody.”

"You’re concussed," Delphine says, flatly. Cosima snorts. 

"Like hell I am. I smashed up my arm worse than my head, and even that’s not broken."

"Your eyes," Delphine points out, and Cosima reaches up as if to poke herself in the pupil. 

"Nice, right? Grew ‘em myself and everything."

"They’ve dilated," Delphine explains, trying not to smile and further egg this girl on. "This symptom is consistent with a head injury. I feel responsible for this, and therefore ought to be treating you accordingly."

Cosima stands again, leaning around Delphine to peer at herself in the bathroom mirror. “Huh.”

"See? Now, if you’ll just sit still, I will—"

"They are dilated,” Cosima goes on, as if she hasn’t spoken. “No argument there.”

"Right. So—"

"Which is also," Cosima says, raising her voice slightly to be heard over Delphine’s tone of authority, "consistent with extreme arousal or attraction."

"Precisely. Which is why I—I’m sorry, what was that?"

Cosima shrugs, and now her grin is downright playful. “I’m just saying,” she goes on, as if this is the most natural conversation in the world to be holding at one in the morning, in your bathroom, with a girl you’ve recently hit with your car. “My eyes could be totally jacked up because I slammed my head on the pavement, yeah, fair. I’ll grant you that option. Or—and I’m just spitballing here—they could be like that because A) it is not entirely unfeasible that I smoked a little grass before running into you, and B) you’re sort of excruciatingly hot.”

She spreads her hands, shrugging. “Just, if we’re covering all our bases here. I wanted to be thorough.”

"You are stoned right now?” Delphine demands. Cosima tips her head thoughtfully. 

"Mm, no, not particularly."

"But—"

"Options," the girl repeats, rather mysteriously. Delphine lowers her face into her hands, exhaling noisily through her fingers. "Anyway. You were saying something about ice?"

"Yes," comes Delphine’s muffled voice. "Yes. Ice. And then we are going to sleep. I think—yes. Sleep."

"Together?" Cosima teases. When Delphine gives her a rather pained look, she laughs. "Kidding! So kidding. I’m totally sorry, that was over the line. You’re too wiped out for jokes."

"I may be too wiped out," Delphine says, weakly, "for breathing at this point."

"Yeah, well, gonna have to keep that up," Cosima tells her in a merry voice. "It’d be really hard to explain how I got here, if you didn’t. Tell you what. You tell me where the ice is—just, y’know, walk me through the kitchen—and I’ll bring you some tea. Fair trade?”

Delphine isn’t entirely sure where tea came into the picture, but it sounds incredible. She nods, knuckling wearily at her eyes. 

"And then I’ll crash on the couch," Cosima concludes. "In the morning, you can check me out again. Over. Check me over." She flushes slightly, rubbing her jaw. "And, if you’re not satisfied that I am one-hundred percent functional, I will allow you to personally escort me to urgent care. Deal?"

Another nod. “You’d better still be breathing, when that sun comes up.”

"You keep your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine," Cosima agrees. "Go make friends with your bed. I’ll be there as soon as I figure out your kitchen situation."

She keeps her word, Delphine is sure—she seems that sort of person—but Delphine isn’t precisely awake to see it. The moment her head hits the pillow, she is gone, her body sinking eagerly into much-needed sleep. She doesn’t notice Cosima in the doorway, leaning against the wall with a mug in one hand and a bundle of ice propped against her head in the other. 

"Pretty cute," Cosima mumbles fondly, "for such a shithouse driver."

Delphine snuffles, clutching her pillow, and makes no argument at all.


	34. My Homework Was Never Quite Like This (Got It Bad)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combo prompt! Separate anons asked for: 
> 
> Cophine AU where Cosima works at a Catholic school as a teacher and Delphine is the hot french new teacher they fall in love even though its forbidden given their situation!
> 
> and
> 
> Can you please do a prompt where Delphine and Cosima are in high school, and their both in an empty classroom and Delphine is looking super hot in her skirt and Cosima makes a pass at her and they have sex on a desk. I know it’s weird but it would be super hot thanks

The French teacher is, to put it mildly,  _killing her_. 

This is not a new phrase in Cosima’s head; it fits quite neatly, in fact, between the biology teacher she had in tenth grade (the woman with the unbelievable rack, and the even more unbelievable ability to talk nerdy without sounding like a textbook; it’s that woman who Cosima has been emulating, rather unconsciously, since starting her career as a high school teacher) and the history prof her sophomore year of college (a youngish guy with thick black hair, thick black glasses, a thick Nigerian accent that made her spine tingle from opening remarks to that final semester-end goodbye). Hot teachers have always been something of a downfall. It’s cool. Everybody’s got their thing.

It’s just a little alarming, that  _her thing_  pokes its head into her fourth period lab, all golden curls and slightly perplexed expression, and asks, “I am so sorry—can you direct me,  _s’il vous plait_ , to the language wing?”

Cosima has been looking at her with the same blankly delighted expression ever since. She knows it’s there, arranging her features into something more appropriate for a fifteen-year-old than a woman on the cusp of thirty. She can feel her smile cracking, her eyes brightening behind her glasses, even before she turns back to the class and finds twenty-four high school juniors smirking up at her. Once, she sets a beaker on fire. There are fewer smirks that day, replaced by a genuine concern.

(One girl, Cheryl, pats her clumsily on the shoulder as she’s walking out. “Don’t worry, Ms. Niehaus. We won’t tell.”)

 _Tell what?_ she’d thought dazedly, her mind still churning over the way Delphine had smiled shyly in at her as she had strolled past the lab. Delphine Cormier: the hands-down  _best_  thing ever to happen at this ridiculously pompous place. Delphine Cormier: making her wish she’d actually paid some attention in the three years of French she’d whittled her way through. Delphine Cormier:

Alone in a classroom?

Cosima stalls out, backpedaling. The alone part isn’t super-weird, actually; Delphine has been at this school for almost a full year now, and Cosima’s pretty sure the only person she’s seen her speak to is…well,  _Cosima_. She doesn’t seem the loner type in a weird, disgruntled way; there is plainly no axe murderer lurking below the surface (or does Cosima believe this solely because  _axe murderer_ and  _gorgeous_  are mutually exclusive concepts in her head? Hard to tell). She just seems…not particularly designed for  _people_ , somehow. As though she’s spent the majority of her life indoors, tucked away from social environments, dedicating herself to educational pursuits over party-going. Cosima can certainly empathize. 

The being in a classroom isn’t insane, either, this being a school and all. It’s more the fact that it is—

"Eight PM, and you’re holed up at your  _desk_?” she says wonderingly, pitching her voice just above a whisper to keep from startling the woman too badly. All the same, Delphine jumps, thwacking her knees smartly on the underside of her desk. Cosima winces. “Whoops.”

"I am behind," Delphine tells her, half-apologetic, half-aggravated. "My mother’s birthday is this weekend, and if I don’t work through these exams now…"

She trails off, dragging one hand forcefully through her hair and rolling her seat backward. Cosima, bag dangling from one hand, does a jittering two-step in the doorway. 

"Cool if I interrupt, then, or…?"

Delphine smiles at her, weary, but sincere. “Please, yes, come in. Distract me. Six months, and these kids still cannot conjugate worth…”

She trails off, puffing out an exasperated breath. Cosima sidles through the door, tugging it reflexively shut behind herself, as if there is anyone left in the building to interrupt…what? A conversation between colleagues?

She perches on the edge of Delphine’s desk, slinging her bag onto the nearest chair and frowning down at the pristine test pages. “Dude, can you even decipher this stuff? I mean—” She stabs a finger down on a page bearing the name of one Colin McArthur. “Is this even French?”

"Decidedly not," Delphine sighs. "As best I can tell,  _that_  is the lovechild of text lingo and, perhaps, that language they speak on the show with all of the sex and dragons?”

"Ahh, right, Dothraki.” Cosima nods, sage and grinning. “Hey, ‘least he’s learning something, right?”

Delphine groans. “It’s funny, you know.”

"What is?"

"My opinions of my own teaching skills were considerably higher," Delphine says wryly, "before ever making contact with students."

"Yeah, well. Kiddos’ll do that." She makes a show of shrugging, as if she hasn’t had this exact same thought four nights out of every week. Wrapped around a pillow, eyes bulging in the dark, she has obsessed over the best possible way of explaining the differences between DNA and rNA, the exact rhythm and cadence required to walk her kids through a rat dissection, the precise manner with which she must speak to sound both trustworthy and brilliant. Delphine’s face just now, crestfallen and rueful, sums all of that up. 

But, y’know, in an excruciatingly gorgeous sort of way. 

"I think you’re great, though," she blurts, not quite meaning to sound  _that_  enthralled. Delphine peers up at her, one long leg curled neatly over the other in her plaid skirt, the top two buttons of her requisition blouse unspooled to reveal the jag of her collarbones. She smiles, faintly, and Cosima feels the air leak slowly out of the room. 

"You may be the only one."

"Nuh-uh." She wags her head with a dizzying violence, following Delphine’s progress out of the chair and toward the chalkboard. "Hey, c’mon. One test. One test means nothing. You know you’re, like, the second favorite teacher in the whole place."

"I suppose  _you_  are the first?” Delphine teases, only half-sounding like her heart is really in the game. Cosima snorts. 

"Nah. Art Bell. Phys Ed guys have it so frickin’ easy, I’m telling you."

Delphine surprises her with a husky laugh, leaning her weight against the board. Cosima drinks in the push of her hip against the metal rail, the way her hand shields her eyes as she sucks in a breath. No wonder she is the school favorite; she has the body of a model, and the smile of a woman who is only partially aware of her own magnificence. She is ease, and grace, comfortable right down to the ebb and flow of her accent 

"The kids love you," she says, softly, hoping the words sound more reassuring than creepy. "They really do. Like, seriously, if half of them aren’t nursing  _ridiculous_  crushes, I’ll eat my next paycheck.”

"Be sure to salt it thoroughly," Delphine advises. Hopping off of the desk, Cosima swats at her. 

"I’m serious. Look, it’s a Friday night, and you’re, what? Hanging out after hours. Like  _gross_  amounts of after-hours. You should be at home by now.”

"You’re still here," Delphine points out. Cosima rolls her eyes.

"Have you even eaten today?"

"Mm." Shrugging, Delphine’s eyes glaze over, boring through the shaded window. "I just…cannot shake the feeling that I don’t entirely  _fit_  here. Have you felt this?”

Cosima gives herself a Vanna White-esque once over with both hands, cocking a hip and pasting a silly grin on her lips. “Excuse  _you_ , mademoiselle. Have you  _seen_  this? I’d make a killing at Berkely, but in small-town Catholic city, I’m amazed they’ve kept me on the roster even this long.”

Delphine’s eyes drag slowly down her body, drinking in the silver chains around her neck, the beaded bracelets at both wrists, the peeking tattoos from beneath her cuffed white shirt. “I see no problem,” she says, and grins. Cosima gently swipes at her arm. 

"If a hippie-dippy chick like me can make it work, you’re going to be fine. Seriously. Scout’s honor, or whatever."

They say nothing for a moment, Cosima fumbling over extraneous words in her head, Delphine simply standing. Her posture is relaxed, but not terrible. Not a  _teenager’s_  slouch, at least, which Cosima is beginning to feel her own shoulders pull toward. It’s getting maddening, spending so much time around the kids; she’s starting to feel like one, herself.

Particularly now. Particularly with Delphine’s blouse cocked open at the neck that way, her skirt snug around her upper thighs. Particularly with Delphine still looking at her with a comfortably interested expression, as if every word out of Cosima’s mouth—while possibly untrue—is a fascination. 

"You’re staring."

"I’m  _looking_ ,” Delphine corrects. Her hands hardly move when she speaks, Cosima notices. She can’t quite wrap her mind around that, around fingers that lie dormant during conversation. Delphine has long, elegant fingers, and strong palms. She could build worlds, with hands like those. 

"At  _what_?” Cosima asks, grinning. “The French make your brain all melty? There’s an app for that, I’m sure. Lemme just get my iPad out, and we’ll fix it together—”

"You are excellent," Delphine interrupts. Cosima’s brain halts on the witticism, twitching in place as it struggles to resume its buffering pattern. Delphine shakes her head. "You are…kind, and thoughtful, and you speak to these kids as though you remember being one of them."

"I…I mean, I guess I do." Puzzled, Cosima frowns. "Don’t you?"

"Not as well as I’d like, sometimes," Delphine admits. "But that is why they love you. You make science fun, but more than that, you… _care_  for them. For who they are, and who they could be. To you, they are not the property of this school, but property of  _themselves_. It is a fascinating approach.”

Cosima scratches her head, mulling this over. Delphine feels very close now, the warmth of her coming off in sweet pulses, wrapped in the heady, gentle undertones of floral perfume. It makes it hard to think. “I trust them,” she says, finally. “To figure themselves out. I guess that’s the trick, if there is one.”

"Trust," Delphine repeats. Her eyes are dark, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. She is looking at Cosima as though every word out of her mouth is a wonder, a religious passage. "That is all?"

"That’s it," Cosima confirms. She meets Delphine’s gaze, holds it steady, smiles. "I dunno if that will resolve the whole  _bitterly incapable of Frenching_  thing, though.”

Delphine laughs. “I have not tested them on their  _Frenching_.”

"That is probably for the best," Cosima replies. Her fingers itch to reach for Delphine’s hand, to caress her cheek, to feel the supple curve of her lip beneath the pad of her thumb. She shakes her head.  _Killing me. “_ Anyway. Again, I say: eight PM on a Friday night? Should  _not_  be in a school. If you’ll just step this way—”

She moves toward the door, startled with Delphine’s hand darts out and closes around her wrist. She tips her head, eyebrows raised. 

"No stepping?"

"It would be…" Delphine’s voice is low. Trembling. "It would be terribly unprofessional, wouldn’t it?"

"To go around Frenching your students? Yeah, probs not a great idea."

Her head shakes slowly, her jaw tensing. “You are…excellent. And this would be…”

"This?" It clicks. Her mouth sags open. "Oh,  _this_. This-this. With the…this-ing.”

Delphine grits her teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, this isn’t why you’re here, I’ll just…”

"I’m here," Cosima interrupts, feeling electric with the shades of her excitement. "I’m very here, if you’re—if you mean—"

 _Weren’t we discussing the art of the job, a second ago?_ She’s still wondering, when Delphine touches her cheek, hesitantly. Still wondering, when Delphine pauses mid-bend, eyes searching for a sign to carry on. Still wondering, as she props herself up on her toes and finds the corner of Delphine’s mouth with wandering lips. 

"I have to admit," she says, a bit breathlessly, "I did not see this coming."

"It was not planned," Delphine replies. Her hands are rigid at her sides, as if she is afraid to touch Cosima too intimately. Her hair falls across her eyes, spun sunshine shading storm clouds. "Perhaps…it is not…"

Cosima kisses her in a sudden stroke of courage, all gentle press and flushed cheek. She kisses her, and Delphine’s hands  _fly_  to her face as if cut free, cradling her in shaking palms. Six months of dancing around the boyfriend question, six months of breakroom conversation and shared lunches, and it comes to this: a Friday night, Delphine’s classroom, a poster of Celine Dion imploring them to  _lire_  from the far wall. She bites down on a snigger, pressing herself more firmly against Delphine. 

"I have never thought of this," Delphine tells her around kisses, as her arms encircle Cosima’s waist. She is flush against Cosima, tall, and willowy, and pushing to meet her. 

"I have," Cosima confesses, because it feels like the sort of  _time_  for confessions, and because she really digs the way Delphine grips her tighter as she speaks. “I have, for a long time. I just didn’t know you were—y’know. Into it.”

"Neither did I." Delphine is stroking at her earlobe with an ardent tongue, groaning softly when Cosima’s hand settles possessively over the seat of her skirt and squeezes. "I have never—not with a woman. And certainly not—"

"In your classroom?" Cosima laughs, and sighs, and stretches her neck back to give Delphine more room to tease the soft flesh beneath her ear. She is taking slow steps backward, leading Delphine without force, until she collides with the desk and all its failed papers. "It seems… vaguely inappropriate, I guess."

"Wildly," Delphine agrees, peering around Cosima and sweeping the whole mess of exams straight onto the floor. Cosima grips her biceps, elated and surprised in equal measure. She shrugs, looking embarrassed. "It seemed like a good idea as I was doing it."

"Great idea," Cosima assures her. "Totally rad idea. Those tests were shithouse anyway, right?"

Delphine hums her approval, pressing forward with her hips until they are groin to groin, rubbing slow through skirts better designed for this floor, any floor. It’s sinful, probably, to ruck up against a desk this way; they are not eighteen, after all, but nearing thirty, and she should be doing this the  _adult_  way, Cosima thinks. She should be taking Delphine home, setting out a nice dinner, perhaps nice music, and nice wine. There are standards, for a thing like this, like the unbearably beautiful French teacher who has been haunting her life all year. 

She delves a hand into Delphine’s hair, lips parting in a pleased little mew as Delphine’s tongue surges to meet her own. She is not eighteen, no, but she  _feels_  eighteen just now, with her skirt bunching comfortably about the tops of her thighs, with her ass pressed firm to the desk’s edge, with Delphine laughing in shuddering, shaky pulses into her mouth. Delphine feels eighteen, too, all pliant curves and nervous energy. Delphine, whose mother’s birthday is this weekend, who has stayed late to resolve the unresolvable issue of students who have not listened, or have not grasped, and who feels so consequently  _foolish_  because of this problem. Delphine, who wraps her up in a roaming, inquisitive embrace, and kisses her blind until the glasses crush against her face, until the breath hisses out of her. 

Delphine has never done this, but she sure could have fooled Cosima, because,  _shit_. 

She finds she appreciates, more than anything, the tense weight of Delphine’s thigh between her own legs, rubbing with frantic energy against the front of her non-school-appropriate lingerie. She appreciates, more than anything, the way Delphine catches, stopping and starting in fits, like she forgets what she’s meant to be doing. Like she’s so caught up in the fact that she has a woman (a friend, a colleague, a  _fellow in educational arms_ ) propped against her desk that it actually  _slips her mind_ , this thing they are doing with so little thought behind it. Cosima reaches around, grasps her by the hips, pulls and pushes until she picks up the rhythm herself. Then she is gripping the desk, her back bent, her hips straining forward and down. It must look so messy, this bedraggled, exhausted biology teacher with her dreads and her nose ring, nipping frantically at any patch of exposed skin she can find as she rocks and rolls and does the peppermint twist up and down Delphine’s thrusting thigh—

Messy—but so  _good;_ she can hear it in Delphine’s voice, in the clamor of French and English cresting and spilling in illogical waves from her lips. They all muddle together, those syllables, until they are less language and more  _color_ , and Delphine is grinding forward, her skirt coming untucked where Cosima’s hands jerk at it, coming unbuttoned where Cosima’s fingers stumble, coming to the very point of unseemliness where Cosima shoves the lapels aside and bares the nude bra beneath. It runs a direct opposition to the dress code, Cosima thinks giddily, dipping her head and closing fervent lips around a patch of skin just below Delphine’s shoulder. It runs against everything. 

She tugs at Delphine’s hand, easing it between her legs even as she shifts herself fully up onto the desk. She meets Delphine’s eyes, telling her silently,  _it’s fine, if you don’t want to; it’s fine, if you do; I trust you. I trust you._ Holding her gaze, she guides Delphine by the wrist, pressing the tips of her fingers against the soaked crotch of her underwear, and sighing ecstatically at the ginger pressure Delphine exerts. It isn’t much. It doesn’t  _need_  to be much. 

"You," she begins, thinking to tell Delphine all of the things she needs to hear, needs to  _know_ , thinking to tell Delphine how magnificent she is as a woman, as a teacher, as this person sharing a singular bubble of time with Cosima alone. She begins, and then the words are swallowed down in a lengthy, deep moan, as Delphine sets a stroking pace of her own devising. Her free hand braces on Cosima’s shoulder, on the curve where it meets her neck, thumb brushing lightly up and down in time with the pulse of her fingers. The friction is delicious. The friction does not have to be much at all. 

She kisses her, wildly, hopefully, thumping the heels of her clean black flats against the side of the desk as she pushes insistently against Delphine’s hand. She kisses her, and thinks,  _The French teacher is killing me, and it is_ the best. 

"Those tests aren’t gonna grade themselves, you know," she gasps, when she’s regained enough breath to be sassy. Delphine, face buried in her throat, mouth working the skin over and over until it burns bright, groans. 

"Eight PM. You are right. That’s too much."

"Closer to nine now," Cosima informs her. "Maybe even nine-thirty. What say we ditch this popsicle stand, go find something greasy to eat? Beer’s on me."

"Make it wine," Delphine says, almost primly, and Cosima bursts into laughter.  _Thirty, not eighteen. That much is real, huh?_

"Wine it is. And then, if you’d like…" She trails off, feeling uncharacteristically shy, despite the encouraging brush of Delphine’s fingers against her inner thigh. 

"What?"

"I have a pretty damn nice bed. We could get all of that tension out of you. You know." She bats her eyes, pleased when Delphine reflexively digs her fingers into the juncture between left thigh and pelvis. "Get you all ready to deal with your mother."

Delphine barks laughter against her skin. “Please, please, do not mention my mother.”

"Get you ready to deal with your French-failing kids?" Cosima corrects, innocently. 

Delphine groans, biting gently at her clavicle. “You are a terror.”

"But I’m one  _hell_  of a teacher,” Cosima nearly purrs. Delphine groans again, guttural this time. 

"I suppose," she murmurs, "you will just have to prove that. You know. With  _trust_.”


	35. Never Have I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> geekmonkeyramblings asked you:  
> Actually, I think I have another one. Been sitting on this idea for a bit: Of all the experiences Delphine Cormier expected to have on her first day on exchange from France, she certainly never thought she’d end up on her ass in the middle of the courtyard, nose-to-nose with a strange girl with dreads and a penchant for losing control of her skateboard. Yet here she is, lap full of excitable stranger (who shares a lot of her classes - and also, as it turns out, is absolutely wonderful.)

”Never have I ever…blown a dude in the backseat of his mom’s car.”

"That is wildly specific," Delphine observes, and takes a demure sip from the bottle of wine. Cosima snorts, hands clapping with a wild rhythm that seems to notch itself below Delphine’s navel. 

"I knew it! I knew you were a wild child!"

"In France, we merely call this  _exploration_ ,” Delphine tells her, handing the bottle back. Her head is buzzing pleasantly, her pulse churning out a steady push-pull against her ribs. This is not how she had planned her first day in an American school, certainly—but, then, not much has gone according to plan today. 

First things first, she had not been prepared for the  _rain_. California, she has already read, is a gorgeous land of palm trees and sunshine. That it would be raining on her first day was bad enough; that the rain would come in a horrendous downpour, sluicing through her clothing and utterly ruining the books she’d dropped into a puddle was simply intolerable. It had almost been enough to turn her straight back around and shove her back onto a plane home. Almost.  _  
_

If not for the girl with the dreadlocks and the absurdly-patterned sweatshirt, fishing her things out of a puddle the size of the Atlantic, she thinks she very well might have disappeared before homeroom. If not for the girl with the nose ring and the bright, beaming smile, she’s not sure what she would have done.

The same girl who had, upon first glimpsing her, run her skateboard straight into the half-wall bracketing the front steps. She left a strangely enchanting first impression. 

"Cosima," the girl had said, sticking a hand under Delphine’s nose. Her skin was clammy from the storm, but no less friendly for it. "Y’know, books are kinda like gremlins, right? Totally not beneficial to get ‘em wet."

It must have been a gift from the heavens, Delphine had thought, as the girl patiently unfolded her once-pristine schedule and skimmed it over. Rainwater cascaded in rivulets from the overhang topping the front steps, and Cosima wrinkled her glasses higher on her nose. 

"Fogging up," she’d muttered, and grinned without a trace of self-consciousness. "Oh, rock on, you’re in like three of my classes."

 _Rock on_ , as if she actually knew anything about Delphine, as if she was familiar with more than the humidity-flattened press of Delphine’s hair and the shambling syllables of her name.  _Rock on_ , as if she was actually excited about this—and, Delphine thought, somewhat bemusedly, perhaps that excitement was even genuine. 

At least as genuine as Cosima’s grin when she’d leaned over as the bell tolled after history and muttered, “How do you feel about petty crime?”

Delphine had pointed out the foolish nature of committing any sort of sin on her very first day, and Cosima had shrugged. 

"I mean, I know a really sweet spot to hang out during the dead zones, but…"

 _Dead zones_ , it turned out, had been Cosima’s phrasing for things like  _gym_  and  _any class I don’t feel like attending today._ In this case, the dead zone had been Calculus, which Delphine probably should not make a habit of dodging—but in order to make a friend? Particularly a friend who is willing to delve her hands into ankle-deep puddles on a whim?

"Never have I ever…" She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. Cosima is leaning forward, her expression suggesting this is the most fascinating conversation she’s had in weeks. Delphine smiles. "Crashed my skateboard into a wall."

"How many times do I have to explain this?" Cosima complains. "You are  _hot_. I am not to be held responsible for klutziness under the reign of  _hot_.”

Flushing, Delphine gestures to the bottle. “Drink.”

Cosima does. She seems to be scooting closer on the wet grass, heedless of the rain soaking into her dress, with every sip. Whether due to the electric pleasure of a new friendship or the alcohol, Delphine can’t quite find it in herself to mind. She likes the press of Cosima’s knees against her own, the silver ring in her nose, the messy scrawl of her hair and mismatched clothes. Cosima does not seem to  _care_ , pure and simple. Delphine’s friends in France were not like this. In France, everyone cared, about every little thing, at every moment. 

This is refreshing, skipping class with a girl who bears the bruises on her knees and the wind in her smile with equal luster.

"Never have I ever…," Cosima says in a dragging voice. "Never have I ever kissed a girl I’d only just met."

Delphine looks at her, reading the lines of her shoulders, the forward motion of her, and then Cosima’s lips are bouncing off her cheek. She is almost high enough to miss entirely, to plant her mouth against Delphine’s eye. Sputtering, giggling, Delphine rocks backward. 

"And now you must drink!"

"Whoops," Cosima replies, and tips back a long swallow. Delphine watches the graceful arc of her throat, bobbing, and thinks that kiss did not  _really_  count. She wonders how many girls Cosima has kissed, for real and true, and wonders why the idea does not press her mouth toward the familiar syllables:  _I am not—I do not—I have never._

Cosima scoots in, swinging herself recklessly onto Delphine’s lap and gathering a handful of her rain-matted hair. “I like this,” she says breezily. “What you’re doing here. It’s a good look.”

"Drowned rat?" Delphine retorts, glibly. She leans back on her hands, pleased when Cosima scratches along the curve of her scalp. "That’s nice."

"It’s less drowned rat," Cosima considers, "and more…erm…last-minute Titanic survivor?"

"You Americans and your compliments," Delphine says, keeping her voice dry. Cosima wriggles in her lap. 

"You get used to us. There’s a certain charm in, y’know. Not knowing when to keep the mouth  _shut_.”

She mimes zipping her lips, grinning. Delphine shakes her head. 

"Never have I ever met someone like you."

Cosima considers this, then carefully props the bottle against Delphine’s left knee. “You know what? We have something in common.”


	36. Leaving (On A Jet Plane)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> geekmonkeyramblings asked you:  
> This one is a bit eh, but maybe you can do something with it. AU prompt: Delphine is at the airport, planning to fly to France to patch things up with her ex - except, the flight is majorly delayed. She’s left with nothing to do but watch the unusual janitor bop along to her music as she’s cleaning the floor. Cosima notices her not-so-subtle staring and strikes up a conversation. When her flight is ready, Delphine chooses not to go. From there, whatever you want. Thanks!

A wise woman would not fly to save a thing half-dead. A wise woman would not fly even across the  _state_ , even across the  _country_ , much less across an ocean. Delphine does not believe she has ever been a particularly wise woman, though it hurts her heart to admit such a thing. Brilliant, yes, but there is a line between wisdom and a simple awareness of the biological. A line. She has never quite learned to cross it. 

She ought to be taking the delayed flight as a sign, perhaps, from a god she’s never quite gotten around to introducing herself to. She ought to be looking up at that board, flashing its message, and shaking her head. Turning away. Plodding home again. This country  _is_  home now, for whatever it’s worth, and he is…

He is far away, and far too judiciary to do her any good. He doesn’t understand her, and brings the gavel down anyway. He has always done this. Does she believe flying to him will make any sort of difference?

Sighing, she leans back in the uncomfortable plastic chair and fixes her eyes ahead. The airport lobby is astonishingly sparse; perhaps everyone else is seeking out food at this obscenely early hour, or maybe they have done what she is not wise enough to go through with, and given up. One way or the other, she counts only four other human beings. There is the grandmother, squinting down at her iPad; the pair of women near the window, one dressed in a neat blouse and slacks, the other in a rumpled police uniform. And there is a janitor.

She is a small woman, swimming in her jumpsuit, shoving a mop with reckless persistence around the floor. Her hair is bound up in thick dreads, piled at the back of her skull, and when she catches Delphine watching her, the left side of her mouth quirks. She nods, possibly to the beat pumping from her earbuds, and gives a little flickering wave. Embarrassed, Delphine returns the gesture, snapping her eyes back to her lap. 

She shouldn’t be doing this. The arguments have stretched taut between them, tethered at one end to the Golden Gate Bridge, to the Eiffel Tower on the other side. She imagines the centerpoint of this relationship stretching, stretching, wearing thin. It could snap at any moment. Very likely  _will_ snap, the minute she stops on his doorstep. Would he even let her in? Would he even  _recognize_  her, with her wavy blonde hair and her fresh California tan?

"You look bummed." 

She glances up to find the janitor woman hovering at her elbow, leaning her weight against the mop handle. “I’m sorry?”

"Bummed," the woman repeats, shrugging. "You want a stick of gum or something? Gum always makes me feel better."

Delphine shakes her head, and the woman gives a  _suit yourself_  smile and carries on with her work. Her hips twist right and left, one foot lifting from the floor as she swivels, using the mop handle as a dance partner. Delphine watches her, feeling hollowed out and confused, soothed somehow by the wriggling motion of her. This woman is so alive, at four in the morning, when Delphine feels as though the color has been squeegeed out of the world. It’s an odd comfort.

"Eyes in the back of my head," the woman sing-songs, a bit too loudly. Delphine startles, pressing her hands against her knees, and tips her head away again. 

"I’m sorry. I am…"

"Struggling to stay awake, yeah, I see that." She darts a smile over her shoulder, and Delphine can see her glasses slipping down her nose. "You want the company? I could use a break."

She’s fairly certain she won’t be of much use, company-wise, but her head is bobbing assent all the same. The woman pivots on her heel, performing a spectacularly unnecessary slide across the gleaming floor and coming to a sharp halt at Delphine’s side. 

"So, why the long face?"

Delphine shakes her head, not quite prepared to discuss her unraveling personal life with a complete stranger. The woman studies her for a moment, and plunks heavily down in neighboring seat. 

"Nah, it’s cool, you don’t have to talk about it. Sometimes, you just wanna sit and share airspace, right?" She gives Delphine a quick once-over. "Though—I really hope this doesn’t come off douchey or whatever—you look like you could use a good talk. Or, I dunno, a nap? Turn out the lights on your problems for a while, maybe?"

"I was not aware," Delphine says, with thin amusement, "janitors doubled as therapists."

"Hey, hey— _custodial enthusiast_ , thanks.” Plucking at her jumpsuit, at the stitched name tag announcing, in a looping scrawl, that her name is Cosima, she grins. “And we’re a breed of many hats. Kind of like bartenders. C’ept, if we start serving alcohol, it’s probably time to pick up and move.”

"You seem very nice," Delphine tells her, somewhat apologetically. "I don’t mean to be rude, I just…"

Cosima flicks her wrist in an up-down snap. “Puh-lease, doing eight hours a day in an airport? You’re practically the nicest person I’ve met this week. You’re elegance personified. You’re a frickin’ queen.”

Delphine turns her head away, shading her smile. Her fingers are picking at an invisible speck of lint on her thigh. Cosima follows her with bright, enthusiastic eyes. 

"Too much? That was too much. My bad. I’d be lying pretty shamelessly if I said I’d slept this week."

"No problems you wish to turn the lights out on?" Delphine wonders. Cosima laughs, a bold, merry sound that draws the attention of the couple in the corner. The neat-dressed woman’s brow furrows. Cosima notices, flicking her a cheery wave. 

"I swab floors for a living. It’s a never-ending score of problems I’d like to flick the lamp off, believe me." Despite the words, she doesn’t sound particularly unhappy about it. Her fingers are snapping, a steady rhythm; Delphine realizes she still has one earbud in, her iPod peeking out from one deep pocket. 

"What are you listening to?"

"Whatever comes on." Cosima shrugs. "Right now, it is…" She screws up her face, grinning, and sings in the worst stab at pitch Delphine has ever heard, "HELP, I’M ALIVE, MY HEAAART KEEPS BEATING LIKE A HAM-MER."

Delphine winces, giggling against her hand. “That is…awful.”

"Watch your mouth, it’s  _rock and roll_.”

"You do not seem the rock and roll type," Delphine observes. Cosima shrugs.

"If it’s got a beat, and I can groove to it, it graces the ol’ iPod. You wanna listen?" 

She’s pressing the other earbud into Delphine’s hand before Delphine can make a decision one way or the other. The song is somehow slow and pulsing in the same measure, rattling against Delphine’s psyche in bright bursts. She closes her eyes, lets herself sink into it, feeling Cosima’s knee jiggle beside her own.

"Cool, huh?" Cosima hums. Delphine nods, tipping a glance toward the delay board again. Cosima sighs. "Leaving me so soon? I haven’t even gotten a chance to wriggle under your skin with my oh-so charming lack of sleep."

"So you believe," Delphine replies wryly. The back of her neck itches, her brain thumping repeatedly against her skull in quick jabs.  _Don’t go. Don’t go, he wouldn’t go for you._ "May I ask you something?"

"Long as it’s not for the number of my meth dealer," Cosima quips. 

"Have you ever…" She pauses, weighing the words, shuffling through the deck of her vocabulary for the right way to phrase it. "Have you ever indulged in something you knew was terrible for you?"

"Something, or some _one_?” Cosima asks. Delphine lowers her head slightly. “Yeah, well. I don’t exactly have a killer track record with that sort of thing, I guess. Is that where you’re going?”

"I don’t know where I’m going." It tastes trite on her tongue. She sighs. "He is not the man I knew."

Cosima nods sagely. “They do that. Long distance is rough, man. Never works.” She hesitates, looking slightly sheepish. “That…probably wasn’t comforting. Sorry.”

"I think…it was exactly what I was looking for, actually." She smiles, not quite feeling as though the expression is reaching her heart. "You think I should not go?"

Cosima looks uncomfortable, scrubbing a hand against the back of her neck, beneath the collar of her jumpsuit. “Woah, hey, not for me to say.”

"But, if it were."

"If it were…I’d say you maybe ought to weigh the consequences? What’s the best that could come of you going?"

Delphine considers it. “I might be able to patch things up. For the moment.”

"Mm. And if you stayed?"

"I…" She shakes her head. His face is a fading photograph already, his eyes less blue than they once were, his chin less firm. She wonders how long it might take, to lose track of that photograph in her head entirely. Not long enough. Too long. Somewhere in between. 

Cosima pats her knee, clumsy as she is reassuring. “Well, don’t worry about it too much. This kinda storm, it’ll be a while before they set you loose in the skies.”

She is moving to stand. Delphine frowns. 

"Now who is loving and leaving?"

Cosima graces her with a grin that brightens her whole upper body. “Can’t help it, lady. Floors to clean, and I’m off in…” She checks her wrist, bare of a watch, but brilliantly tattooed. “T-minus twenty minutes, probably.”

"And then you will sleep?"

"And then," Cosima says, somewhat roguishly, "we shall see where the night takes me."

She performs a dramatic spin with her mop, dipping it like a lover at the tail end of a waltz. Delphine shifts in her seat. 

"If I’m still here…" She hesitates, plunges on. "If I’m still here, would you like to get breakfast?"

"At five in the morning?" Cosima looks delighted. "IHOP!"

"Sure," Delphine agrees. "IHOP."

Casting another fond glance over her shoulder, Cosima begins to push off toward the grandmotherly woman, who is now snoozing over her iPad. She pauses once, twisting on her left foot. “Hey—what are the odds of you still being here, when twenty minutes are up?”

Delphine imagines that rubber band once more, stretching, stretching, weathered in the middle. “Perhaps better than they would have been, without your help.”

Cosima’s smile is much clearer than his face, much less forbidding. There is no judgement in that smile. 

"IHOP," she repeats. "Twenty minutes. If you’re not airborne."

Somehow, though it pains her heart to admit it, Delphine thinks both feet will be remaining firmly on the ground. His face is not clear enough, not nearly as clear as the memory of his zeal, his disapproval—all the things she does not want. She could fly to him, to face it all head on. She could.

She is not a wise woman, but there is a time to call halt on everything.

"Help, I’m alive," she hums beneath her breath, watching Cosima sway away toward the police officer and her companion. "My heart keeps beating like a ham-mer."


	37. (An Alternative Brand Of) Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scalpelink said:  
> Beth and Cosima share an apartment. Tired of Cosima smoking in their apartment (I don’t care if you’re from San Fran, Cos, it’s still illegal!), Beth handcuffs her to a bedpost and leaves her to debate her law-breaking ways. Cosima, ever crafty, still manages to light up when cuffed. She calls Delphine to rescue her. But far from intent on finding the key to the cuffs, Delphine decides to have a little unobstructed fun.

”This is the  _grossest_  misuse of power,” Cosima calls into the living room. Her wrist is already beginning to ache. She’s never regretted living with a police officer so badly in all her life. “Like, in the history of police brutality.”

"Tough noogies," Beth calls back. "We’ve talked about this, Niehaus. No lighting up in the apartment."

Cosima groans. “Last I checked, I had just as much of a right to do as I please here. I pay rent too, y’know.”

"It is  _illegal._ " Poking her head back into the bedroom, Beth raises a chastising eyebrow. She is pulling her belt tight, adjusting her sweater neatly in the mirror propped over Cosima’s bed. "This look all right?"

"It’s tight-ass chic," Cosima informs her. "Come  _on_ , we’ve talked about this. The illegality of pot is the most useless thing ever. The economy would soar sky-high if the bigwigs in the White House would just slam down on that stupid ban. We could be great again, this fair country of ours!”

"Save it." Beth tosses her head, running her fingers flat over the flyaway strands of hair trying to poke up at the back of her skull. "Seriously, though, I look good? They’re already giving me the eye at work, like I’m some kind of damn rookie."

"You  _are_  a rookie,” Cosima reminds her, and questions once more the series of life choices leading her to this moment. Beth Childs was perfectly okay in high school, if strung a little tight, but post-Academy Beth? Unmanageable. 

"Hey! Hey, you can’t just leave me here!’ she adds, as Beth smooths down her sweater one last time and swivels for the door. " _Beth_. I am  _cuffed_ to my  _bed_.”

"Not my problem," Beth sing-songs back. "Learn to play by the law, Niehaus. I’ll be back in a couple of hours."

"What if I have to  _pee_?” Cosima demands, straining against the cuffs. “What if the blood rushes to my hands, and my nerve endings get all frigged up? What if—”

"You have a phone," Beth calls. Cosima can hear how near she is to the front door—probably already has one foot out, knowing her. Beth never did have patience for loitering. "Ring up somebody who gives a shit."

The door slams, and Cosima is left like this: legs stretched out in front of her, right hand bound above her head to the railing of her headboard in decidedly  _non-standard_  fuzzy cuffs, glaring daggers at the key. Which is on the dresser, beside the door. Which is nowhere near within snagging distance. She would have to be Mr. Fantastic or some shit for that noise.

She remembers seeing something on TV once about breaking your own wrist to slip a cuff, but that hardly seems worth it. Because,  _duh_ , she was smoking to mellow out. A busted wrist is exactly the opposite of mellow. 

"Least she left me my phone this time," she mutters, remembering a particularly unpleasant event two months before. Being locked in a bathroom was, at least, functionally useful—except Beth just kept shoving Saltines under the door when Cosima whined about being hungry (she’d been pretty solidly blazed by that point, and would have quite happily killed for a McDouble), and reciting the California list of laws and regulations at the top of her voice. 

Seriously.  _Why_  does she put up with this woman.

Delphine answers on the fourth ring, just as Cosima—phone wedged between her ear and shoulder—is scrounging an emergency blunt and lighter from her bra with her free hand. She pauses at the sound of Delphine’s sleepy, “‘ello?” and smiles with instinctive wriggling glee. 

"Heeey, Delphine. Whatcha doin’?"

"Napping," Delphine replies. Cosima slips the joint between her teeth, flicking the flame to life after a couple of slippery efforts. She isn’t quite as comfortable lefty-ing it up. 

"Don’t sound like you’re napping."

"What do I sound like?"

"Liiiike you’re about to come over. I may have gotten myself into a  _slight_  jam.”

To her credit, Delphine is quick, and has absolutely no problem scrounging the spare key (the one their landlord will never know they cut, for the sake of keeping a roof over their heads) from under the Geeks Do It Better welcome mat. Against that credit, Delphine is…less than swift at the actual  _unlocking the cuffs_  bit. 

"What did you do this time?"

Cosima sucks in a swell of smoke, tips her head back, tries to exhale without removing the joint from her mouth in the process. It does not go spectacularly well. 

(To her credit, Delphine is pretty good about stamping out the flame before it can leap to her bedspread, when she hacks the joint right out onto her lap.)

"I would like to point out the obvious," Delphine says, mildly. "Is the obvious all right by you?"

"Prefer it if you didn’t," Cosima coughs, "but seeing as you’ve sort of got the upper hand just now…the key’s by the piggy bank, by the way."

"You own a piggy bank?"

"The velociraptor. With the chip in its tail, see? Key’s the shiny thing next to it. If you toss it to me, I’ll reward you with ice cream and the endless entertainment afforded by shifting every piece of Beth’s furniture six inches to the left."

Delphine hesitates, musing over the objects strewn across her dresser. Her fingertips trace picture frames, the knot of necklaces, the untidy sprawl of textbooks stacked atop electronica CDs. She does not, Cosima notes, seem in any particular hurry to play out the  _free the damsel_  part of the evening. 

"Hey. Key me? Please?"

She watches Delphine step slowly closer to the bed, looking tousled and gorgeous and decidedly uninterested in doing what Cosima is asking. Her brow furrows. 

"Am I about to get the hot French lecture? Because, I’d like to remind you, I’m still sort of cuffed to a bed. I don’t have much in me for lecture when I’m cuffed to things."

"But it is the only time you are silent," Delphine observes, her voice far lower than Cosima is anticipating. "What with your hands bound up."

"One hand," Cosima points out. "Which you could totally resolve. C’mon, I  _really_  want to go mess with Beth’s room. Let’s shift all the clocks two and a half minutes behind. Or, we could tie her stupid sweaters to the bannister outside. Or—hey!”

Delphine has grasped her left hand and shifted it gently to the headboard, so Cosima’s arms are splayed above her head in a V. Without batting an eye, she scoops a sock from the floor and knots it loosely around Cosima’s wrist, then leans back to observe her handiwork. 

"Yes. That should do nicely."

"Do  _what_?” Cosima demands, struggling not to grin and doing a pretty poor job of it. “You think I called you all the way over here so you could have your way with me? Seems very inappropriate, Dr. Cormier.”

"You are not my patient," Delphine reminds her, with a certain smug thread knotting the words together. Cosima shivers, flexing her arms instinctively. 

"You’re really not going to unlock me, are you?"

She releases a huff when Delphine swings herself up onto the bed and settles neatly in her lap. “No,” she agrees. “That was not the plan.”

"You and Beth," Cosima groans. "You and Beth are actually going to be responsible for my death someday, you know that? No one takes care of me around here. I’m fending for myself in a bitter world."

"I cannot speak for Beth," Delphine says, sliding her hands lightly up Cosima’s ribs. "But I believe I have been known to take care of you just fine."

She’s grinning the way she only does when her guard is down—when she has just woken, or just had sex, or just allowed Cosima to get her thoroughly and wildly baked. It’s a contradictory grin, part wolf, part lamb. It sends the skin of Cosima’s back rippling, her stomach contracting with a single hot throb. 

"No fair." She can’t help the laughter in her voice, shivering with an undertone of arousal. Her hips work up once, a mock-effort to dislodge Delphine’s warmth; she nearly bites her tongue when Delphine grinds automatically back down, bracing a hand on her shoulder for balance. "No  _fair_ , not letting me touch.”

"Those hands are always talking," Delphine says calmly. "I think it is time for you to listen."

She bends to capture Cosima’s lips, seeking as they are for some contact, and slips her hand without preamble beneath Cosima’s blouse. Her skin is still slightly cool from the evening air, popping the front clasp on Cosima’s bra and pressing lightly to the curve of her breast. Cosima’s heart slams upward, rocketing against her grinning teeth. 

"Oh, no  _fair_.”

"You have committed a crime," Delphine points out, drawing lazy circles with the tips of her nails across one puckered nipple. "I believe this is what they call  _justice_.”

"Punishment?" Cosima laughs. "I don’t think— _ah_ —Beth would approve of this brand of, y’know. Justice.”

"Beth is not here." Delphine has her earlobe between her teeth, suckling as she pinches with two nimble fingers. Cosima stretches, fingers flexing into fists and going slack again, and is unbearably thankful for her roommate’s busy schedule. 

She angles her head, straining to catch another kiss, to be able to exact  _some_  control over the situation. Delphine dodges, squeezing lightly beneath the blouse and raking her nails in hot stripes down the clench of her stomach. She is all cat with canary, all cream and sugar, all bait and catch. Cosima groans, letting her head fall back against the pillows, even as Delphine snakes down her body and begins, with pinprick focus, to unbuckle her belt. 

She has never quite realized how desperate she is to touch Delphine, all day long. It’s all the little moments, walking through the supermarket, or sitting on the bus, letting her fingers drift and brush as they will. It’s all the intimate ones, her hand finding Delphine’s knee under the table at dinner, stroking invented alphabets up the bared stretch of her arm at the park. And, of course, it is in bed: burying her hands in thick blonde hair, tracing freckles, scar lines, the cleft between Delphine’s thighs. She has never quite realized her desperation, because her desperation is always fed. Now, tied this way, prevented by such annoying obstacles, she finds herself squirming. 

Delphine glances up, fingers deft on her zipper, on her waistband, easing tight denim down her legs. “Problem?”

Cosima grits her teeth, bucking and twisting. The clang of metal on metal is maddening. Just one hand. Just one freed hand, and she can catch Delphine by the hair, by the sleeve, by her long, exquisite fingers and pull her close. “What knot did you use on this sock, Jesus.”

"I have many hidden talents," Delphine teases. She bends her head close to Cosima’s stomach, pushing the blouse up until the flex of her abdomen is utterly on display and blowing lightly across the bared skin. Cosima trembles, goosebumps rising fast and hungry. 

"So I see. You know you’re gonna get as good as you give later, right?"

"Counting on it," Delphine says, almost prissily, and runs the tip of her tongue from the base of her ribcage down to her bellybutton. Cosima groans, legs spreading so Delphine can settle between them, pressing up into her with soft, entirely clothed breasts. Her arms slide up around her thighs, her breath coming in long strokes. Cosima wriggles in place, pushing up; Delphine’s hands drape over her thighs, pinning her back down again.

"Please," she murmurs. "A little patience."

Cosima gives a strangled, delighted moan, twisting her hands against their bindings. She likes the pressure of Delphine’s hands when they press against her skin this way, likes the tracks her nails leave on soft, pale skin. Each flare of hot pink reminds her that this is Delphine’s game, Delphine’s control. Her stomach lurches pleasantly, particularly when Delphine bites down gently on her upper thigh. 

"You’re gonna kill me," she groans. "You’re gonna—"

But she likes it almost as much as the flash of quiet confidence in Delphine’s eyes. Delphine, who has not been with another woman before her. Delphine, who hesitated for months to take this step at all. Delphine, with a palm flat across her stomach now, blowing increasingly quick, warm breaths across the cotton of her underwear until Cosima makes a low, growling sound in her throat. 

"Please," she pants. "Please, Delphine."

Delphine hums, and still, does not lower her head that final inch. She is close enough for Cosima to feel the nudge of her nose against the damp crotch of her underwear. Close enough for Cosima to imagine the first flick of her tongue, ginger pressure, barely anything at all. She closes her eyes, turning her head from side to side. 

"Please, please, if you won’t let me touch you, at least—at least—"

"Justice?" Delphine suggests, innocently, and administers a surprisingly rough lick. Cosima yelps as her teeth close lightly over cotton and damp and nerve, scraping, using the material to build slow friction. Her hands prop against the inner slope of Cosima’s thighs, pushing them apart. Cosima grits her teeth, swallowing the tremulous, pleading sounds threatening to draw from her throat.

 _Justice_ , sure, yeah—if this is justice, so be it. Bring it on, slam it home. If  _justice_  is Delphine jerking at her underwear with bold teeth, sliding the cotton aside with one finger and teasing plump nerves and flushed skin with the flat of her tongue— _yes, judge me, send me down the line, give me time to serve, but let me serve it with her._ Cosima is bucking against her mouth, feet flat against the mattress as she strives to spread herself wider, to accommodate that curious, thrusting tongue as it seeks wet and heat and want. Her fingers are curled tight to her palms, nails biting stinging marks into her skin. When Delphine slides inside her, curling the tip of her tongue sweetly, the world bursts into inarticulate stardust. Cosima tips her head as far as she can reach against her own shoulder, biting clumsily down, begging in wordless strides of voice. 

She is pulse and sweat, husky and luxurious. She is knots of muscle beneath her shoulders, taut up the thrilling curve of her spine, laced with acidic sweetness up her arms. She is teeth and mark and Delphine’s name, panted, cried, sobbed as Delphine’s head bobs enthusiastically between her legs, her fingers tearing aside the underwear and plunging deep. 

 _Justice_ , she thinks with moaning glee, twisting giddily up into Delphine’s gentle strength. An alternative brand of justice, one accepted only through Delphine’s decision. Not the sort Beth would appreciate, no doubt, but Beth is a tightass with a dumb set of morals, and—anyway—Beth  _told_  her to phone a friend. 

She’ll have to thank her for that, she muses in some distant corner of her mind, as she clutches around Delphine’s head and grinds relentlessly into her orgasm. With a feng shui adjustment to her bedroom. 

Just as soon as Delphine deems it appropriate to locate that key. 


	38. Don't Tell Mom (The Babysitter's Hot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> swarm0 asked you:  
> Cophine prompt. The Niehaus’s hire Delphine as a babysitter, and everything they tell her to watch out for seems like it’s for a hyperactive kid, but it’s actually for Cosima who’s only about a year or 2 younger than Delphine. (They really just want to make sure Cosima eats on time and doesn’t burn down the house with experiments, yes she almost did that, it was really only the garage!).

Delphine hesitates at the living room entrance, feeling uncomfortable straight down to her toenails. “I…must have misunderstood. I thought this was the…Niehaus residence?”

"Nope," the girl on the couch says, rather flippantly. "No misunderstandings here. C’ept, maybe, on my folks’ end."

Delphine looks around the spacious room, one hand moving instinctively to smooth back her hair. “I…was under the impression I would be…babysitting.” She winces on the last word. The girl on the couch must be at least fifteen—barely younger than herself—and looks neither surprised, nor pleased by this mix-up.

"Yeah. That’s pretty much the idea."

"Do you have a younger sibling?" Delphine asks hopefully. The girl shakes her head. 

"Nah. Look, I’m really sorry about this. Plus side is, you’re gonna make  _bank_  this weekend. The parentals are pretty excellent at tipping. And most things that aren’t hiring babysitters for their high school student.”

She pushes herself up from the couch, extending a hand. “Cosima, by the way. What’d they tell you?”

"That my…services would be required, Friday night through Sunday morning." The more she talks, the hotter her face flames. She pushes on all the same. "That I should be on guard, because their daughter was…"

"Equal parts rambunctious and magnificently brilliant?" Cosima offers, grinning like the cat who has not only cornered the canary, but possesses a wide array of recipe options for its consumption. "And also might be just a  _little_ prone to pyrotechnics?”

"They…may have left that last bit out."

"They would. Fire sometimes scares the wiser kids away." She shrugs. "Look, they’re goofy, and they’re a little overprotective, but basically, they’re paying you to sit on your butt all weekend and eat their food. Could have a far worse deal ahead of you."

"It does not bother you?" Delphine asks, gaping at this baffling young woman in her neon-printed dress and bangle bracelets. 

"That they micromanage my existence? Whatever. Least they picked someone cute this time." Her grin fades, her hand rubbing at her jawline. "And, uh. If we’re being honest?"

Delphine nods encouragingly. Cosima looks only slightly embarrassed. 

"I kind of owe them. For, uh. Burning down the garage last month."

Catching sight of the look on Delphine’s face, she flashes a reassuring smile. “But hey! What are the odds of repeating that mistake twice, huh?”

This is, Delphine thinks, as Cosima flops back on the couch and pats the next cushion over invitingly, going to be a long weekend.

**Friday Night**

"Popcorn?"

She accepts, largely because Cosima is shoving the bowl right under her nose. It helps that she hasn’t eaten much tonight. She’d been expecting the necessity of cooking dinner for a tiny ball of energy, one who would also need to be reminded to brush her teeth, and be tucked into bed and wished pleasant dreams after a thorough monster-check. 

Instead, she had been greeted by a slightly amused, slightly resigned teenager who had been quite capable of heating up her own frozen pizza. There had been no need for dinner preparations at all.

She sort of wishes the Niehaus family were a bit more…forthright with their babysitting requests. 

"I’m sorry, I still don’t fully understand this. Your parents still get you a babysitter. Because you…burn things down?"

"Not, like, as a  _career path_ ,” Cosima laughs. “It’s just a thing that happens sometimes. Also, kind of suck at the whole remembering-to-feed-my-face thing. When I’m working, anyway.”

"Working on what?" She doesn’t mean to sound suspicious, though it comes out shiftily enough. Delphine pops a handful of buttered corn into her mouth in an effort to look more casual. 

"Science," Cosima says, off-handedly. "The kind that sometimes goes boom, but mostly just is  _interesting_. I’m going into evolutionary biology, you know.”

"Evolutionary biology does not tend to explode," Delphine points out. Cosima beams up at her, tossing a fluffy kernel up and darting forward to snatch it out of the air with a searching tongue.

"Then you’re not doin’ it right."

"I—"

"Hey, you wanna watch a movie?" Cosima bounds up from the couch. "We’re a little behind the times, but we’ve got a pretty sweet 80s collection going on. You like  _Weird Science_?”

Delphine stares at her. She shrugs. “What? You’d rather I mix up some corrosive chemicals?”

"No, no.  _Weird Science_  is excellent.”

**Saturday Morning**

"Mmph."

"Cosima, you fell asleep  _on the couch_?” Delphine stares down at her, hands on her hips. She had gotten a perfectly nice eight hours in the Niehaus guest room. And, after the enthusiastic tour of Cosima’s bedroom—complete with chemistry table, iMac, and full constellations of glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars—she’d pretty well assumed…well. That Cosima would make  _use_  of that room. 

The girl is blinking blearily up at her, clearly blind without the glasses that have somehow found their way halfway across the living room. Delphine sighs. 

"I’m beginning to see why your parents want you watched."

"What?" Cosima yawns. "Girl can’t crash where she likes? It’s not like I fell asleep on the  _roof_.”

"Have you ever fallen asleep on the roof?" 

"Just, y’know. Once or twice." She sits up, stretching her arms high above her head. Catching sight of Delphine’s expression, she smiles. "Stargazing. You’ve never rooftop-stargazed?"

"I…am not fond of heights," Delphine admits. Cosima makes a sound that isn’t quite like laughing at her—but near enough. 

"Oh, hey, we can fix that. Tonight, my roof. Be there, or be a really awful babysitter. I could break my neck without the supervision."

"You are not getting me out on your  _roof_ ,” Delphine laughs. She’d much rather not be charmed by this strange girl, with her over-protective parents and her propensity for taking care of herself not at all, but there doesn’t seem much help for it. Cosima is clearly sweet, if a little scattered. 

And mischievous. 

And, apparently, hellbent on making breakfast. 

"You like eggs?"

"Everyone likes eggs," Delphine points out. Cosima sweeps up her glasses, nestles them firmly on the bridge of her nose, and strolls toward the kitchen. 

"Surprisingly, not true. But that was my totally sly, not at all obvious way of checking the status of your meat-eating properties. Not a vegan. Check. And for my next trick—"

She slides to the fridge in mismatched socks, jerks it open, wrinkles her nose at its innards. “We will substitute lemonade for orange juice, as my parents—heathens that they are—didn’t keep us well-stocked in the breakfast realm. Bacon?”

"Please." Delphine settles herself at the island in the center of the kitchen, amused. Cosima tosses her a wink. 

"And she eats meat. Be still my heart. Never did get the people who don’t dig bacon."

She makes, as it turns out, magnificent eggs. 

And only sets off the smoke alarm once in the process. 

Delphine snickers into her plate, and manages not to comment. 

**Saturday Afternoon**

"Does it ever bother you? Your parents?"

Cosima glances up from her textbook, over which she has been hunched like a fairly uncomfortable-looking pretzel of arms and legs for the last hour. “What? That they micromanage my existence?”

Delphine, thumb hooked between the pages of a copy of  _The Handmaid’s Tale_ , nods. Cosima seems to consider this seriously. 

"Yeah. I mean, it’d be kind of unnatural to just roll over and take it, right?"

"But you don’t—I mean, you haven’t been rude to me at all."

Cosima looks genuinely perplexed. “Why would I be rude to you? You’re cool as hell. Like, seriously, out there in the real world, I’d have asked you to dinner three times over by now.”

Delphine smiles. “What makes this so different than the real world?”

"Moral grayscale." Cosima wiggles her eyebrows, tongue between her teeth. "But for serious. There’s no point in bitching out an unbiased third party. Maybe if you were a total jerk or something—but you’re cool. Way I see it, I get a little human companionship for the weekend, and you get some extra green. We both win."

"You don’t normally get human companionship?"

"I’m…focused," Cosima says, hardly looking shamefaced about it. "People are kosher and all, but I’ve got, like…things to do. Theories to deconstruct. You know how it is."

It’s a terribly flippant thing to say, and she pins her gaze back to her book as she says it. Delphine watches her carefully, studying the bow of her head, the profile of nose and lips and chin, and decides Cosima is brilliant, and charming, and…rather lonely, in her own way. It seems a shame. 

"And you? Are you, like, totally pissed that they weren’t straight with you? It’s cool to say yes, if you are. They do this all the time. I think it’s some kind of goofed-up social experiment, in a way—see what teenagers will do in bizarre situations."

"I am…not pissed," Delphine says slowly. "Confused, perhaps. You do not need a babysitter."

Cosima raises her head, smiling. “No,” she agrees. “I really don’t.”

"And you’ve hardly burned anything since my arrival."

"Oh, that." She flaps a hand. "I’m just showing off. By this time most Saturdays, I’ve torched six separate sheets of paper towel, a textbook, and a small rodent."

Delphine stares at her, horrified. 

"Kidding!"

A breath of relief.

"…about the rodent."

**Saturday Evening**

She still does not love heights, but she has to admit: this isn’t so bad. 

"See what I mean about the stargazing?" Cosima’s arms are tucked beneath her head, her body bundled haphazardly into a sweater two sizes too big. She looks very small, and very happy, a blanket curled over her legs. Delphine, tucked in close beside her, can’t help but smile. 

"There is not much to see out here," she observes. Cosima wrinkles her nose. 

"Light pollution sucks balls. But you can kinda see  _some_. Look! Orion.”

She uncurls one arm from behind her head and points. Delphine follows the line of her finger, adorned with a blocky silver ring. 

"You do this often?"

"Sure," Cosima says, comfortably. "On my own, usually. My folks used to come out with me, but then they got all…busy. You know. The way grown-up science people do."

Delphine’s stomach clenches with a strange sort of grief for the girl. “You miss them.”

“‘Course I miss them. It’s a nostalgia thing. I miss being small and part of their world all the time. But whatever, man. You grow up. You start learning things for yourself.”

"Exploding things for yourself," Delphine teases, in an effort to lighten the mood. Cosima grins. 

"Sure. House rules. Once you’re old enough to blow shit up, you’re old enough to pick out your own constellations."

They are quiet for a while, companionable, gentle. Delphine feels the heavy presence of Cosima’s shoulder against her own, slim and warm and somehow vibrating with a barely-contained energy. She nestles a bit nearer, pulling the blanket tighter across their legs when a breeze whistles by. 

"Cosima?"

"Mm?"

"I think you should tell them."

"What? That I miss them?"

"That, yes. But also…that you do not need this. To be… _monitored_  this way. It’s disrespectful.”

Cosima is silent. Delphine turns her head, and finds contemplative eyes peering at her through the darkness. 

"They worry," she says, softly. Delphine reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

"Then they should be here. You’re too old—too smart—too… _everything_. You do not need to be watched.”

Cosima’s mouth crooks wryly. “True. But how else would I have met you?”

Delphine’s cheeks flush. Her fingers clutch around Cosima’s, sliding to fill the spaces between, where the bulk of Cosima’s rings bump inelegantly against her knuckles. 

"I’m sure you would have found a way."

She does not mean to nod off out there, bundled on the Niehaus rooftop with Cosima’s head against her shoulder. It is, probably, the mark of a wildly irresponsible babysitter. 

But for a pair of teenagers…yes. It suits them fine. 

**Sunday Morning**

The sunlight is warm on her face, and it is only when she realizes a bird is chirping unnervingly close to her ear that Delphine pries open her eyes. And squeaks. 

"Cosima!"

Cosima, stunningly, is already awake. She is sitting a foot away, her knees pulled up to her chest, the sleeves of her sweater tugged down over her hands in the morning chill. Her eyes are distant, her smile gentle as she peers out over the neighborhood. 

"Mornin’, starshine. The earth says hello."

"We fell asleep," Delphine says, somewhat dumbly. "On your roof."

Cosima shrugs. “It happens. I was gonna wake you for the sunrise, but you looked super peaceful. Anyway, it was too cloudy to be awesome. Next time.”

"Next time?" Delphine repeats. "Next time we have a sleepover on your roof?"

"Or yours," Cosima says genially. "I’m not picky. Hell, we can even crash a total stranger’s abode, if that’s what floats your boat. I hear the Hendrixes have a  _great_  view.”

Delphine skids into giggles, unexpected, but lovely. She sits up, carefully, and pulls the blanket more firmly around herself. “Your parents will be home soon.”

"I know. Bummer."

"We should, perhaps, not be on the roof when they arrive."

Cosima shrugs again. “They paid you to keep me fed and burn-free. Don’t remember anything in the contract about both feet on the floor.”

Still, she allows Delphine to coax her back into the house. They stand together in her bedroom, smiling stupid, sleepy smiles. 

"Got a confession," Cosima says at last. Delphine tips her head. 

"Yes?"

"If you weren’t my, uh. Babysitter." Her mouth twitches wryly. "I’d totally have kissed you by now."

It is inappropriate, given the circumstances. Then again, the circumstances themselves are pretty inappropriate. Cosima is  _fifteen_. Fifteen year olds do not require babysitters. 

"Ask me," she hears herself say, giddy and sleep-hazed, still shivering in her blanket, "again when they’ve gotten back."

Cosima raises her eyebrows. “Unexpected.”

"Ask me," Delphine repeats, and Cosima smiles so broadly, she almost forgets to add  _after_  to the end of that sentence. This was not the plan, at the beginning of the weekend. This was not the idea at all.

They never told her she’d be keeping a girl her own age company. A charming, witty, exhilarating girl, who sets off smoke alarms, and snuggles close in the night, and who is lonely, but does not say so. They never told her what she’d be in for, really. 

In a way, she guesses, they only have themselves to blame. 


	39. Permanent Ink Stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you:  
> That ask you just received about Cosima’s tattoos makes me want to prompt Cosima as a tattoo artist and Delphine coming in for her first tattoo. Kind of surprised it hasn’t been done already actually.

”You look nervous.”

Delphine raises her head, cheeks going slightly pink. “I—”

"It’s cool, it’s cool." The young woman waves her hands peaceably, her face brightened by the force of her smile. "You don’t have to do this if you’re not into it, you know. No pressure."

"There is no pressure," Delphine tells her, a bit stiffly. She is lying, of course; the pressure is in having walked through the door of this tattoo shop in the first place, in having said she wanted this, in this energetic little woman drafting a stencil and testing it out on her skin. Now she is sitting, her arm outstretched, doing her best not to tremble. Pressure. Yes. There is pressure. 

"Seriously, we haven’t even gotten to the needling bit yet," the woman—Cosima—tells her. Her smile never wavers, but her eyes are solemn behind thick glasses. "You can still back out. I won’t even call you chicken."

Delphine screws her eyes shut. “Just—go on with it. Please.”

"You’re sure?" A jagged nod. The woman pats her hand lightly, her fingers deft and casual, as if they’ve known each other a lifetime. "All righty. Just do me one major favor?"

Delphine hesitates. “Yes?”

Cosima is smiling up at her when she cracks an eye. “Breathe,” she instructs gently. “Remember to breathe. Gonna be a real mood-killer if you pass out on me.”

"And you will…be gentle?" She feels like a child at the dentist for the first time, dreading the drill. Cosima’s gloved hand squeezes her fingers. 

"Gentle’s practically my middle name. …I mean, no, not really. That would be super weird. But trust me. I’m a professional."

She winks, and Delphine feels the knot in the pit of her stomach loosen. She leans her head back, releasing a shuddering breath, and—remembering Cosima’s favor—drawing another. It fills her lungs, long and slow, and she stares around at the posters lining the shop’s walls. It is a nice place, as tattoo parlors go. She had expected dim lighting, leering men in leather jackets, a general sense of grime. Instead, she is treated to wood paneling—admittedly, a little cheesy, but not in a bad way—and splashes of color every which way. A lava lamp rests on the front counter, behind which sits a bored-looking young man with pouty lips and an impeccable complexion. 

And, of course, there is Cosima. Cosima, who ought to look ridiculous, with her nose ring and dreadlocks, whose clothes clash as loudly as is possible, and who still gives off a radiant sort of serenity when she smiles. Cosima, whose hands are steady, and who  _is_  gentle after all—efficiently so, beautifully so. It hurts, the ink stinging into her skin, but no worse than a July sunburn. She swallows against the pain, watching Cosima’s face.

Dark-rimmed eyes flick up to meet hers, Cosima’s grin as cheerfully crooked as ever. “Thoughts?”

"It’s…not as bad as I was anticipating," Delphine admits. Cosima dabs at her skin, adjusting the position of the tattoo machine.

"Yeah, I hear that a lot. People think it’s, like…flogging or some shit. And, I mean, totally depends on where you’re gonna get your piece. When it’s right on the bone, that can be pretty killer after a while."

She is quiet for a while, working at a diligent, careful pace. The double helix grows vibrant on Delphine’s skin, jet black and pleasantly curved up her inner arm. She watches, feeling strangely rebellious, and pleased, and just a little bit exhausted.

"Why’d you decide to do this, anyway?" Cosima asks. "If you’re so freaked out, I mean. Wasn’t a dare, was it?"

"Proving a point," Delphine replies. When Cosima raises an eyebrow, she smiles sheepishly. "My job…can be a bit of a boy’s club. A good many of them believe women are, shall we say…"

"The weaker sex?" Cosima suggests. Delphine snorts, an unladylike, undignified sound that echoes through the shop.

"Yes. And incapable of facing their fears. So, no, it was not a dare. But close enough, I suppose. Do you find this foolish?"

"Totally." Cosima grins. "But in a, y’know, badass, sexy sort of way."

"A permanent ink stain is badass and sexy?"

"Is the way I do it." And she returns to her work, chewing reflectively on the inside of her cheek. Delphine smiles.

"Thank you," she says, when it’s over. She does not miss the sting of the needle, though her skin seems to itch without Cosima’s fingers sliding up her arm. She supposes this is simply an aftereffect of the needle as well, and tries not to dwell too firmly on that sudden sense of loss. Cosima, pulling off her gloves, tips her head.

"My pleasure. What do you think?"

She peers down at the vibrantly pink skin, at the rich black ink, at Cosima’s neat handiwork. She is, certainly, very good.

"I think," she says slowly, "you are very much worth your price."

"All the bang for your buck," Cosima agrees happily. "Now—if you’ll be so kind as to lend me your ear, we’re gonna go over the whole  _how not to let your arm infect and fall off_  process. Sound good?”

Delphine, still gazing with pleasure at her new artwork, nods.  


	40. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> allmyinhibitions asked you:  
> oh my god in light of recent events (in the shape of adorable youtube videos) someone HAS to write a cophine cell mates AU and I really really really think that person should be you :D pretty please?

They tell her she’ll be sorry when she gets caught. Not  _if. When._ They tell her that’s the bit she should have thought about, before performing illegal experiments, and she laughs them off. A wayward god of her own making does not  _apologize_  for such things. Feats of engineering. Feats of art, masquerading as flesh and blood. Feats of skin grafts and split cells, and she was  _proud_. Is proud. Will remain so for the rest of her days, if she’s honest with the press and lawyers and anyone else who asks. 

Aldous is caught first. Aldous does not keep his mouth shut. She’s known all along that he makes the most deadly sort of partner: brilliant, and sly, and utterly without a spine. Aldous has spent years assuming he held the reins, and Aldous…

Well. If there’s anyone to blame here, she certainly does not escape the list, but it is  _Aldous_  who first brought the idea to her attention. And it was Aldous who left her name neatly in the hands of the authorities. 

They told her she’d be sorry, when she was caught. And she is. In that way a person is always sorry for such gaps in well-wrought plans. She is sorry for accepting Aldous’ hand, and sorry for fool’s errands along the way, and sorry for her sentence, which means years of useless pacing inside a glorified cage. 

But she is not sorry for the  _science_ , nor for the art. That is the integral difference. She is sorry, in the end, for being caught. 

Prison is…particular. A specified set of perimeters, sculpted for a very specific case. Women who have made poor life choices. Women who have stolen large sums of cash, who have peddled large sums of drugs, who have battered husbands or children or strangers on the subway for reasons best left to themselves. Prison is peculiar. And the people with whom Delphine finds herself spending time are decidedly more interesting than she will let on. 

There is Manning, who is serving on three separate counts of fraud, and her sister. They do not allow the two a shared cell, of course, but it wouldn’t matter either way. The sister, with her shock of dyed-blonde hair, can be found in solitary more often than not. She settles disputes with teeth and claws, spitting and hissing and laughing at the top of her lungs. Manning watches her with calculating eyes, snagged neatly between compassion and distaste, and when her sister steps out of confinement, she is the first to slide her dessert across the table, into Helena’s hopeful hands. They are fascinating. Delphine makes silent notes:  _family_ , she thinks,  _is thicker than obstruction of justice._ After all, Manning has only parted a number of fools from their money. Helena has gouged out eyeballs. Quite a divide, in the end.

There is Hendrix—Alison—who seems to pretend as though she is not actually  _in_  prison at all. Alison, who was taken in on one count of leaving a woman to strangle in her kitchen sink, one count of beating her husband bloody with a golf club, several counts of drug possession. Alison’s reliance on narcotics is immense. Alison’s withdrawals, even more so. Alison Hendrix spent her first week and a half shuddering, sweating, screaming in her cell, and it was only when Childs—the on-duty guard who should surely have known better than to walk  _into_  a detoxing prisoner’s cell with her guard down—slid onto the cot beside her, rocking her to sleep, that she quieted for even ten minutes. They are curious. Delphine makes her silent notes:  _comradeship_ , she thinks,  _is thicker than career expectation._ After all, Childs should be sneering through the bars at her charges. Keeping them in line. Alison has  _hurt_  people, and none more so than her own self. Theirs is a taut, unspoken, dangerous sort of alliance. 

There are others. Rachel Duncan, in your basic white collar sentence: bribery, blackmail, petty assault (the last of which was carried out by her partner, a man called Daniel, who very neatly turned her over when the time came to make a deal). Rachel Duncan, who makes her neat assessments of the other inmates, who runs deals and trades goods, and somehow never seems to confuse  _usefulness_  with  _friendship_. Rachel Duncan is astonishing. Delphine watches her in the cafeteria, making her silent notes:  _strength is merited on knowing precisely which wounds to inflict, and which to soothe clean._ After all, Rachel Duncan is deadly—but deadly does not mean failing to trade bandages to a wounded woman, when Manning has come off the wrong end of a fight. 

There are others. The German, who keeps to herself. The woman known only as Mrs. S, who came in on several counts of human smuggling, and who keeps the kitchen with sharp glares and snappish words. Heads up, lips thin, doing their time. Their time  _only_ ; they will do no one else’s for them. Not the way Manning sometimes steps in when Helena is backed four-to-one against the bathroom wall. Not the way Alison sometimes finds a cool washcloth and a smile in Officer Childs. Not the way Delphine…

Her cellmate is, in her own extremely biased opinion, a  _best case scenario_. Cosima Niehaus, on charges of drug possession and trafficking, is too smart for her own good, too cheeky for her own good, too attractive and charming for her own good. She is too much of too many things, and Delphine suspects she could even have talked her way out of her sentence, given enough time. Selfishly, she is glad this did not transpire. Without Cosima, she might have wound up sharing such minimal space with Alison Hendrix and her nightly sobs, or Rachel Duncan’s hawk-eyed knack for exploitation. Cosima is far better. 

All Cosima asks of her is friendship. 

It seems an odd thing, in such a conditioned space as a women’s prison. Not protection, not bribery, not even sex (though there is plenty of that; Delphine finds she quite enjoys sex with Cosima, though she can’t be sure if that is because Cosima is a woman, or because such intimacy behind bars was well beyond her expectations of prison);  _friendship_. Cosima lays awake at night, whispering theories, and stories, and dreams down to Delphine. Delphine, arms around her pillow, uncomfortable and shabby and just a bit too cold, appreciates her reason and her care in equal measures. Cosima, too, has a scientific mind. Cosima’s mind, perhaps, could rival Aldous’, given a bit more time in the education system. 

More importantly, Cosima has a deep-rooted compassion Aldous could never have touched. Delphine isn’t even certain  _she_  is capable of such things; she suspects her career field has frosted a good number of her more human circuits, layered them with chips of arrogance, with ambition, with the cold-clear certainty that gentle hands do not build a universe. Still, time with Cosima seems to be doing her good. She is laughing again. 

Before prison, she can’t remember the last time she had laughed. 

She stretches out in her bunk, her hips bucking a light rhythm against Cosima’s tongue, and she makes silent notes:  _affection is, perhaps, a stronger force than fear. Everyone fears Helena, Manning, Rachel—no one fears Cosima. And yet, it is Cosima who holds power._ This is the greatest truth. Cosima is unequivocal energy. Cosima is air-guitar during work hours, racing mops as they swab down the showers. Cosima is foolish, and carefree, and a bit too  _young_  for prison, somehow. No one beats her down. No one jumps her when her back is turned. She is unfathomable. She slips cigarettes beneath the table to the German, and slips dice in the yard to Manning, and slips smiles in the cafeteria to Rachel (who sneers in return, but does not throw punches, does not sic her many delegates on Cosima at any turn). She slips her graceful charm beneath the skin of each and every inmate, and she…

 _Runs this place_ , Delphine thinks, muffling her mounting cries in the soft skin of her own wrist. Her teeth bite in, her right leg sliding from the bunk as Cosima moves beneath the sparse blanket, and she knows it is true. Even Mrs. S favors Cosima with the choicest options in the kitchen. Even Helena, teeth bared, legs bent in preparation for a fight that never comes, only watches her with feverish eyes. Cosima is smart. Cosima is kind. Cosima is catty only when she needs to be, and smooths the scratches with chocolate. No one knows where she obtains the goods she passes on. No one is foolish enough to ask. 

She pulls Cosima up to her, kissing the sticky remnants of herself from Cosima’s grinning lips, and thinks how this is not what they meant. They’d said she would be sorry when she was caught—not  _if_ ; when—and she is. In her own way. She is sorry for years lost, for research gone unrewarded by conclusion. She is sorry for trusting Aldous. 

But this is an experiment in its own right: the marvels of a modern women’s prison. The marvels of non-formulaic family structures. The marvels of alliances made and dashed, made and dashed, an endless string of repetition. 

And other marvels. Quieter, private marvels. The marvel of Cosima’s bare breasts in the shower. The marvel of Cosima snagging her fingers and dragging her to the courtyard at mid-day, pointing out a new nest of baby birds from her careful distance. The marvel of Cosima’s searing kiss at the end of another day which has, in so many ways, resembled the one before. These are good things. These are precious. She would never have found these things out in the world. 

She watches Manning lay calming fingers on her sister’s arm, watches Alison nod briskly to Officer Childs, her lips bowing in a faint smile, watches Rachel Duncan watch them all, and she feels Cosima’s hand envelope her knee beneath the table. She watches. She makes her notes. 

This is, against everything they had told her, a fascination in and of itself. 

A scientist makes the most of her situation. 


End file.
